


Last Embers

by SaintEpithet



Series: Uncharted Horizons [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autumn, Bromance, Brotherly Feud, Character Death, Civil War, Essos, Fictional Religion & Theology, Free Cities (Essos), Friendship, Gen, Ibben, Jon Arryn Lives, Lord of Light (R'hllor), No Romance, POV Multiple, POVs listed in prologue AN, Politics, Prophecy, Redemption, Robert Baratheon lives, Rum for the Red God, Sea Travel, Slow Build, Subtle Uplifting, Travel, War for the Dawn, Westerosi Mythology, Westerosi Politics, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 135,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintEpithet/pseuds/SaintEpithet
Summary: Winter is approaching, but it is not the only thing the Realms  have to fear. Buried under ice and vague legends, Lord Stark finds the  Old Enemy waking from his long sleep beyond the Wall.However,  this is not Eddard Stark's story. This is the tale of Stannis Baratheon's struggles to hold his brother's kingdoms together. It is the tale of Thoros of Myr's path back into R'hllor's light and Beric Dondarrion's way through the valley of shadow. It is Renly Baratheon's vision of the realms' better future and an avalanche of change rolling over the North. And it is the tale of a king who grew fat on a throne he never wanted and has to remember the warrior he once was.These are the elegies of the North, the battle hymns of the South and the siren's songs from distant shores of the Known World.





	1. Prologue – A Northern Elegy

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Summer Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345663) (which establishes original characters and the political landscape of Westeros), and the second part of a trilogy. 
> 
> I prefer vague tags over spoilers, so here's a blanket disclaimer: There will be character deaths down the road. There will not be any smut nor major ships. Cameos and characters in minor roles are not tagged to prevent clutter. 
> 
> Multiple POVs, but no "book style". The POV characters are Thoros of Myr & Beric Dondarrion (Essos), Stannis & Robert Baratheon (Central Westeros), Loras Tyrell & Renly Baratheon (South) and Leiff Warryng & Roose Bolton (North). 
> 
> Updates every second Wednesday. My update schedule is my honor.

Grey clouds weighed heavy as lead in the sky, an endless blanket obscuring a late autumn sun on the distant horizon. The fir trees cast long, murky shadows on the barren soil of the path and even though nightfall was still a few hours away, the men carried torches on their way back to the keep. The taste of smoke and smoldering wood still lingered in on their lips and there was a disquiet in the air on their march up the hills. Only the croaky cry of a bird echoed, so loud it seemed to be the only sound from here to the banks of the Last River.

Once Frostspear Hall, surrounded by a sparse forest of pine trees, came into view the group stopped on the foot of a rocky knoll and one of the men broke the eerie silence. "Shall we check the traps, my lord?" he asked, looking to a narrow, trampled trail leading down into a more heavily vegetated valley.

Leiff flinched at the words, the realization they now pertained to him was still much too fresh, much too cutting. "Not now," he firmly gave back, feigning composure because there was no other choice. "They've only been out for a night now and what the hunters brought back will be enough for the feast." He paused and his gaze drifted down the narrow trail. "Go back to the keep," he then thoughtfully added. "Tell my wife I went to see the weirwood and will return soon as well." The man nodded, waved to the others and led them up the broader path toward the holdfast, only one remained standing on the crossroads with Leiff.

"If you allow it, my lord, I would go with you," he said, waiting a few steps away for an answer. He sounded solemn and the grieved expression made him look older than the twenty-four years he was, as old as Leiff felt upon hearing the words once again.

"Don't be silly." Leiff tried to sound reprimanding, but the attempt was drowned out by the pain in his voice. "Of course I allow it. You don't need my permission to pray for my father." He turned away and wandered down the narrow trail to the valley, then stopped after a few steps and waited. "And don't call me 'my lord'," he quietly added. "Not yet."

The young man nodded and followed him, and for a while they walked in silence. "You'll have to get used to it though," Leiff heard him say when they reached the valley and the small forest within. "You _are_ the Lord of Frostspear Hall now and..."

Leiff stopped by large pile of mossy boulders and glowered over his shoulder. "Harrion, please," he said, a hint of anger echoing in the plea. "We gave my father's ashes to the northwind only two hours ago. I'll need more time than that to get used to being addressed by his title." The glare turned into a frown and Leiff turned away, continued the way toward the small weirwood ahead. " _My_ title, I know," he corrected. The anger had faded and left calm sorrow in its place. "But I expect hearing it won't feel right for a long while."

 

The weirwood stoically awaited the lone visitors, its pale white bark standing out bright among the dark fir trees, the crimson leaves like a fire against the grey sky. Its face looked as indifferent as ever, empty eyes staring into an unknown distance, a gaping mouth bearing the slight curve of a frown. In the flickering light of Harrion's torch the sap gathered in the eye holes looked fresh, blood red and shimmering as if the tears had just been shed. They had been there since Leiff could remember though, decades if not centuries longer, perhaps. The trunk felt warm when they laid their hands against the pale bark, though the thin ice on the nearby pond betrayed the autumn's true cold. A breeze rustled the leaves as they whispered their prayers, a last farewell to Lord Frydrick Warryng, a plea to the Old Gods to guide them safely through the long, coming winter, the first one alone.

"Let us look after the traps," Leiff said when they got up from their knees and brushed the damp dirt of their clothes. "Maybe there's at least a weasel or fox we can bring home. Give the tanner something to do. We've been low on furs for..."

Harrion stopped on the path and regarded Leiff for a moment. "But the traps have only been out for one night," he repeated what Leiff had earlier told the guards. "Shouldn't we hurry back to the keep so the feast can begin?"

"I'm the lord now," Leiff gave back with a tired shrug. "The feast won't start until I say so." He walked toward an overgrown trail branching off from the path, leading into a thicket of fir trees, small larches, shrubs and ferns. "My father took me here to teach me set traps," he continued. "Even if they're empty now, checking makes it feel like he's staying a bit longer."

"Used to be a good place for traps," Harrion said, a quiet bitterness in his voice that Leiff knew all too well. "When my father taught me, we always found the traps filled. There were even lynxes here when I was a boy." He walked faster and caught up with Leiff in the thicket, and the torch's light made it easier to step over mossy rocks and branches. "You know, in a way you were lucky," he added, now more melancholic, though the bitterness was still seeping through every word. "Your father slept away with a smile on his lips. That's how you'll remember him."

"And that's how I will remember my wedding," Leiff replied. "As the last time I saw my father smile."

Harrion lowered his gaze in thought, waiting on the trail while Leiff stepped over some shrubs and boulders. "But he smiled," he said. "Though he didn't eat much during the feast and could barely stand up from his chair, he forgot the illness for that one night. I've never seen him so proud in his life. 'My boy is marrying a girl from a Great House,' he kept saying and he probably toasted to it with every man in the hall twice."

"Did you hear what my mother said before she entered the hall?" Leiff knelt down next to a trap, hidden in the black shadow of a large fern. "She whispered to the Old Gods under her breath, begging them to keep Lord Bolton away. 'We're little more than smallfolk to him,' she said. 'Please, don't make him come and claim the first night'."

"And he didn't," Harrion firmly noted. "You didn't really worry about that, did you? Not even Lord Bolton would be so bold and insist on outlawed traditions when one of his bannermen weds the daughter of a Great House."

Leiff let out a sardonic laugh and got up from the ground, not having found the fox or weasel he had hoped for in the trap. "No, I wasn't worried about that," he gave back. "We're not smallfolk to our liege lord, we're forgotten. He didn't even decline the invitation I extended out of 'respect'. I didn't expect him to come, but even the Umbers sent a raven instead of pretending we don't exist." He made his way back to Harrion and together they began walking to the trail leading up the hill. "If anything, Lord Bolton thought a Frey girl would not be worth the hassle, assuming he read the message I sent him at all."

"You're probably right," Harrion admitted and sighed. "Just this time his disregard for our matters worked out in our favor. As rushed as the wedding was, it was a fine celebration. I can only speak for myself, but I'm glad the man who condemned my father to the Wall didn't make an appearance."

"And cursed mine to wither away like a short summer," Leiff sullenly added. "It only confirms what I always knew. We're on our own out here, now more than ever. Nothing good will come our way from the Dreadfort. I just hope the Old Gods will answer my prayers and erase us entirely from Lord Bolton's thoughts." He stopped and waved Harrion to come closer with the torch, then inspected a shrub in the shine of the fire. "Take my brother with you when you're leaving with the other hunters tomorrow. Have him gather the blackberries and all the thistles and roots he can find. If the winter will be as long as Maester Faelan said, even a bowl of dried berries will be more valuable than gold."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The heat of the afternoon still lingered under the high ceiling of the Small Council chamber, though the sun stood low on the western horizon at this hour. It felt like the session had begun days ago and the notes of the seven men gathered around the long table would not run out of items any time soon. Two weeks ago a white raven had arrived from the Citadel, heralding the upcoming change of seasons and declaring autumn had arrived in the realms, and the news that a long and harsh winter was coming spread like wildfire though the streets below the Red Keep. In the council chambers nobody had been surprised by the maesters' prediction. The dread that an unforgiving winter would follow a decade of summer had loomed over the council's table for months, if not years. Preparations had been made, yet there were still many things to be done before winter would claim the realms once again.

"The usual unrest," Varys noted, visibly bored by the subject. "When the maesters announce the coming of winter, petty crime, particularly theft, always picks up."

"It's like they don't trust the crown to take care of the matter," Lord Baelish interjected, his tone more amused than the Spider's, though not by much.

"They better gain some trust soon then." Lord Tarly scoffed and glanced over a scroll with his notes. "At this rate, I'll run out of cells by the end of the month." He pushed the scroll away and turned to Jon Arryn. "How long is this state of unrest expected to last? I can instruct the Gold Cloaks to only make arrests in more severe cases, armed robbers, larger groups working together, but I hardly consider that a solution."

"Hard to tell," Grand Maester Pycelle answered instead of the Hand. "The coming winter will be unusually long and..." He paused, coughed into his fist, then reached for his ale and took several slow sips before he continued. "Normally, the unrest calms down within weeks, but with such a dire prediction..." Again, he paused and sipped from his cup, much to Lord Tarly's overt irritation.

"I suggest we increase patrols in the most troubled areas," Ser Barristan Selmy spoke up, calm and firm. "Theft is always an issue, but before winter the bakers and fishermen bear the brunt of it. Scare off the thieves from the Street of Flour and the harbor, post guards at the warehouses. That's the best we can do until the panic dies down."

 

"It's an ungrateful position, Lord Tarly, being called to the Small Council before a long winter." The Hand of the King didn't look up from his notes, but his voice carried more sympathy for the Master of Law than his fellow council members expressed. "I agree with Ser Barristan, the city guard is at your disposal and best used the way he suggests. I also expect the Night's Watch to send Wandering Crows soon. They'll take at least some of the cells' occupants off your hands and free up the dungeons for new arrivals." Lord Tarly barely held back a snarl upon hearing the Night's Watch mentioned, but he nodded and washed down the scoff with some ale. "Any other matters we need to address today?" Lord Arryn finally looked up from his notes, carefully studying the men gathered in the Small Council chambers one by one. "The session is closed then, if..." he began when nobody immediately answered, but just before he had gathered his scrolls, the Spider's voice held him on his chair.

"I believe Grand Maester Pycelle has a matter we haven't discussed yet," Varys said, pointedly indifferent, enough to pique Jon Arryn's skepticism. The Master of Whispers was never truly uninterested, if he broached a subject he didn't do so without knowing the details ahead of everyone else.

"Me?" Pycelle feigned surprise, muttered something unintelligible into his shaggy beard, but neither helped diverting attention from the expression that said he felt caught in the act. "Oh, nothing of importance," he claimed, testing the patience of more than one of his peers. "I almost forgot, as there are so many more important things and..."

"What is it?" Lord Stannis Baratheon turned to him with a sigh of unveiled impatience and when he didn't get an immediately answer, his gaze jumped to Varys instead.

"A letter from Lord Eddard Stark," Varys softly explained. "Though I can't say what message it contains, I assume it must be a rather important one. Lord Stark isn't known for entertaining pen friendships for idle chatter, after all."

"Curious indeed," Lord Baelish noted, leaning closer to Pycelle in an attempt to peek at a scroll the Grand Maester carefully guarded with his sloppy sleeve. "Both the fact that Lord Stark sent a raven and that your little birds flutter in the dark regarding its message."

Varys didn't react, pretending to not have heard the remark, and turned back to Jon Arryn. "If there is anyone in the realms who stoically stares into the cold eyes of winter, it is Lord Eddard Stark. Grand Maester Pycelle may not attribute much meaning to his letter, but Lord Stark knows better than anyone what the change of season entails. He is well aware how busy the news keep the crown and wouldn't write if it wasn't a matter of some importance."

 

Jon Arryn slowly looked over to him, regarded him for a moment, then sighed. "I raised the man like my own son," he said after a brief silence. "I don't need to be lectured about how Ned Stark thinks." His gaze wandered across the table and finally rested on Grand Maester Pycelle. "What does the message say? Make it quick, we're all exhausted and tomorrow will be another long day."

Pycelle gaped at his piece of parchment, half hidden under the sleeve of his robe, then hesitantly pulled it out and cleared his throat. "Lord Stark writes that..." He paused right away, earning annoyed stares from around the long table, but the Grand Maester seemed determined to make everyone wait. "...the Night's Watch reports a sighting of what was described to him as a 'white shadow'." Again, he coughed, this time onto the scroll in front of him, before looking around with disbelief in his eyes. "Obviously, this is nothing but northern superstition," he continued with an air of importance when nobody spoke up and the council kept staring at him, waiting for the rest of the message to be read out. "Such a claim has been made thrice before, twice in the same winter, and it turned out to be excuses by young recruits for attempts of desertion, no more."

"Did a deserter make the claim this time as well?" Lord Stannis dryly inquired.

The Grand Maester glared at him for a moment, but before he could answer Lord Baelish got hold of the scroll. "It says the report came from Castle Black," he said while skimming over the message. "It was brought before Lord Commander Mormont by..." He did a double take, but didn't stop reading and summarizing his findings out loud. "...the First Ranger. Lord Eddard's brother, Benjen Stark." After a quick glance to Jon Arryn, intently listening and not showing any reaction, Lord Baelish read the last lines and put down the scroll. "It's not outright stated that he didn't desert, but given the First Ranger's reputation I would assume he did not."

"A prank among brothers, perhaps," Varys dismissed what he had heard. "Or a ruse of the Night's Watch because polite requests for more recruits didn't yield the desired results in the past."

"Lord Commander Mormont is not known as a prankster," Lord Tarly noted. "Never met the man myself, but I'm well aware of his reputation. It would strike me as odd if he resorted to such means to attract more recruits."

"I agree," Lord Arryn said, his brow furrowed in thought, his eyes fixed on the scroll, now resting on the table before Lord Baelish and Grand Maester Pycelle. "I know Mormont well. He'd consider such tricks beneath him. And as Lord Varys said, Eddard Stark wouldn't relay petty jokes to King's Landing, even less in the busy weeks after the Citadel sent the white ravens."

Varys pointedly raised his eyebrows and regarded Lord Arryn with some irritation. "Yet here we are, discussing a fantastic tale of 'white shadows' beyond the Wall, despite..." he began, but was quickly cut off by Lord Baelish before he could finish.

"Perhaps the Grand Maester is right and this is no matter of importance," he said, carefully studying Varys' face across the table. "But to Lord Stark, it was important enough to send a letter to us. We cannot dismiss the fact that there is a giant Wall in the North, made of ice and old magic, or so they say. If the 'ancient enemy' the Northerners speak of truly awoke, it will concern all of us sooner or later. Our best course of action..."

"We are not dismissing the Wall," Lord Tarly impatiently interjected. "But we have real problems here, and our troubles are rooted in the reality of the coming winter, not old tales and superstition of the North. I suggest we clean out the dungeons, send everyone held there to the Wall. Whether there's some 'old enemy' or, what's more likely, the savages are attacking more boldly than usual, more men will put the Watch's worries to rest."

"The punishment must fit the crime," Lord Stannis sternly noted. "We cannot punish petty thieves with sentences reserved for more severe offenses because it suits us. You are the Master of Law, Lord Tarly, but maybe I made a mistake to suggest your name for this position." He pushed his chair back, got up and grabbed his stack of scrolls, apparently about to leave the chambers though the session had not been closed.

"What am I supposed to reply to Lord Stark then?" Pycelle's tired, old eyes followed Lord Stannis around the long table, toward the wide double doors.

"That I will discuss the matter with him in person," came a prompt answer. "I'll depart for White Harbor in a few days," Stannis added, his free hand already pushing the door. "I'll meet Lord Manderly about matters regarding the expansion of the harbor. After that, I'll ride for Winterfell and speak to Lord Stark. We'll have facts once I return and can make a well-informed decision about what is to be done about the Northern concerns."

 


	2. Gossamer Days

The Rainwood forest still shied away from the fiery colors of autumn. Only few of the tall trees wore yellow, orange and red, and the birds chirping in the shades of their canopy kept singing the songs of summer, undeterred. A white raven had arrived at Blackhaven a few weeks ago, but as far as the Dornish Marches were concerned it had brought nothing but words. The warm, humid air didn't give away the coming of winter, hunts were as bountiful as the harvests and the hardships of colder months were distant thoughts for another day.

Beric and Danyal waded back to the bank of the stream, leaving the much needed refreshment of the cool water behind when they reached the grassy ground of the clearing. "Caught anything?" Thoros asked, not looking up from his cozy spot between the roots of an ancient oak. His eyes were fixed on a guard by the small, crackling fire and his efforts at evenly roasting the spoils of the hunt. The Rainwood had been generous, there were three pheasants and two small quails, along with several skinned rabbits still waiting for their turn on the fire on a rock next to the pit.

"A break from the heat," Beric gave back on the way to the fire. "What more would we need?" He glanced to the birds on the skewer, the rabbits and the basket holding mushrooms and herbs they had gathered during the day. "It will take quite the appetite to eat all of this before we reach the Weeping Town, and there'll be a harvest festival full of delicious treats waiting for us." He sat down next to Thoros, took the bottle from his hand and cringed when he drank the first sip of the lukewarm ale.

"That's one thing to look forward to," Danyal said. He picked up a cup and filled it with fresh water from a jug sitting atop a tree trunk near the fire. "I have a 'delicious treat' waiting for me that I won't share." With a roguish smile, he handed Beric the cup, then poured one for himself and sat down on a boulder.

"And what kind of treat would that be?" Thoros asked, put his ale bottle away and quickly stole Beric's cup.

"Remember the blonde I met during Lord Kellington's name day tourney two months ago?" Danyal gave back. "Tiana, I believe, or Tiona. She's from the Weeping Town, if I remember that right."

Beric shot him a skeptical glance and took his cup back from Thoros. "What happened to the lass in Fawnton you fancied? The one from the tavern who made the great bacon pies."

Danyal shrugged, then drank his water in one go. "Fawnton is a long way from Cape Wrath," he said. "Guess I hope she won't be attending the festival or at least not see me with the blonde."

"That's not the answer a knight should give," Beric noted, trying to sound reprimanding, but at the same admitting defeat. He gestured for the jug and Danyal leaned closer to pass it to him.

"She's not much of a lady either," he replied with another amused shrug. "Where would be the fun in that, after all?" After an impatient glance to the roasts over the fire, he looked back to Beric and continued in a more serious tone. "Though, I also wouldn't pick a lady to marry without knowing what I'll get. You don't buy horses without taking them out for a ride around the barn first either."

"I didn't 'try out' any of my horses," Beric gave back. "Some were gifts for my name day, others were bought by Anguy on my behalf. And one was a gift from Thoros after the tourney in King's Landing last year. I have no complaints about any of them and..."

"Fine, fine, if you're wealthy enough other people will try out your horses," Danyal interrupted, seemingly amused by the answer. "Just don't let them try out your lady, that might come back to haunt you one day."

"If Danyal has his own diversion during the festival, maybe we should make some plans as well," Thoros nonchalantly changed the subject. A few steps away, the guard almost dropped one of the quails into the fire when the bird stubbornly clung to the skewer instead of sliding down onto the tray. "You know, it's been almost a year since Leiff left," he pondered out loud, carefully watching Beric's reaction from the corner of his eye. "Why not take the chance of such a large gathering and talk to some people with sons looking to squire? I'm sure there..."

"Maybe," Beric cut him off and the one word was sharp enough to make clear he didn't like the new subject. "I don't expect we'll travel too much during winter and there are enough servants at Blackhaven who can tend to my needs," he added after a brief pause. His voice had lost the edge and his expression was pensive now, betraying that the topic weighted heavier on his mind than he liked to let on. "I might speak to Lord Caron. He made inquiries to several houses a few months ago, I think it was about a young cousin or nephew." The way he said it left no doubt that he hoped Lord Caron would not attend the festival or had already made arrangements with another knight by now.

 

"If you don't want a new squire I won't push you," Thoros gave back. "Might help you take your mind off other things though. Besides, winter won't be here for several months. We'll travel quite a bit before the first snow and it's not like there's nothing to do for a page during winter."

"I know, I know." Beric sighed and leaned back against the old oak. "I was a page during winter myself and it was the dullest year of my life. There was none of the knightly life every boy dreams of, no tourneys, no festivals, no diversions from tedious duties. Things changed for the better in spring and I became a squire shortly before summer." He broke off and sighed again. For a while it was quiet, only the fire crackled under a rabbit that had taken the place of the birds. "Frankly, I wouldn't know how to keep a page busy through a long winter. I liked being a squire, but it wasn't just because I received more training with horses and swords instead of scrubbing the same barely used armor and pouring the same wine into the same cup again and again. It was the festivals and tourneys making up for the unpleasant duties. Taking on a page now, only one year before winter, would deprive him of the enjoyable part." He paused and looked up when a guard came over from the fire, serving a tray with quail and seasoned mushrooms to the three men under the oak. "If the coming winter will be as long as predicted, even the youngest, least talented page will be ready for knighthood before spring," Beric continued after the tray had been placed on the trunk next to Danyal.

"So this is not about Leiff anymore?" Thoros asked and reached over Beric for one of the plates with roasted quail. "You had me worried a bit with such a lengthy period of mourning."

Beric shook his head, though he hesitated with his answer. "A little, perhaps," he finally said. "I thought I had made my peace with his departure, but the most recent letters still affected me more than expected. His father succumbing to the illness, the rushed wedding we couldn't attend on such short notice." He took the plate Danyal handed him and regarded the roast for a while. "We never talked about winter," he absently noted. "As if we had an unspoken agreement to pretend it would never come."

"If I was from the North I wouldn't like speaking of it either," Danyal gave back. "I haven't seen much of the Northern winter, but it was enough to make sure I'll never be north of the Neck again when it comes."

"You've been to the North during winter?" Thoros looked up from his roast with doubtful eyes.

"Aye, once." Danyal shot him a reproachful glance, then took the bowl from the tray and poured some mushrooms onto his plate. "Not the deep North, but I spent a few months in a village near Ramsgate as a boy. My uncle claimed we'd be better off on the mainland because fewer ships would bring supplies to Sweetsister in winter, so we set sail for Ramsgate in late autumn." He passed the mushrooms to Thoros and began cutting his quail. "Once the snow came my uncle changed his mind and we just barely made it to the Fingers through a bad storm. Not that we had the time of our lives there either, but it was better than the short stay in the North."

 

Beric listlessly poked the quail on his plate and finally reached for the jug with water instead of cutting the roast. "Hearing that doesn't put my mind at ease about Leiff," he said. "All I've ever seen of the North was a bad storm during summer and it was enough to chill me to the bone. I can't imagine how cold it must get during winter." He drank straight from the jug, then put it back on the trunk. "I don't recall seeing any fields or pastures on our way to Frostspear Hall and it felt like the keep was at the end of the world."

"Northmen are a tough people," Thoros said, chewing. "And not all letters Leiff sent brought grim news. Isn't it uplifting that he gets along well with Lady Kareena? That his brother is excited about the prospect of becoming a maester and abandoned his stubborn thoughts of taking the black?" From the corner of his eye he saw Beric's expression change. The dark clouds of gloom drifted away, but he seemed undecided whether he could trust the sunnier weather or not. "You're right, the northern lands are not well suited for crops or cattle," Thoros continued. "But that doesn't mean House Warryng will starve. Leiff put the dowry Lord Frey paid him to good use. The horses allow Frostspear Hall's hunters to travel farther and Lord Umber gave them permission to fish and hunt with the villagers near the Long Lake. That alone makes the situation less dire than it seems at first sight."

"I said the same thing when the letter arrived." Danyal shot a sneer at Beric and stuck his fork into a mushroom. "But once the white raven arrived all the gloom came back with it. I suspect it's not simple concern for Northern friends, it's also not knowing what to do with himself during ten years of winter." Beric raised an eyebrow and looked over, but Danyal ignored the reprimanding glare and just ate his mushroom. "Don't act like I'm teasing," he said when Beric kept glaring. "You even tried to teach me that game you sometimes play with your father. Didn't bother with it before, nor did you ponder how long it would take to rearrange all books in the solar or put all bottles and barrels in the cellar onto new shelves. You dread the boredom of being stuck in your castle more than the cold."

"I reckon the crow had no idea how right he was when he called you 'Lord Sunshine'." Thoros chuckled and tried to ruffle Beric's hair, but the remark had done all the ruffling already.

Beric shook the hand off and glared back to Danyal, now calmly chewing on a thigh of the quail. "Cyvasse makes good practice for tactical thinking," he gave back with an air of importance. "Is is an advantage if soldiers understand their commander's plans in battle instead of blindly following orders they don't comprehend." He finally lifted a piece of his roast, but still didn't take a bite from the bird. "And it does no good at all if you keep cheating and hope I won't notice that you moved a piece or two with your sleeve."

Danyal shrugged, amused by the scolding, and put down the bare bone on his plate. "Old habits die hard and some cunning never hurts in battle." He took the second thigh and turned it to find the best spot for a bite. "What great wars are we going to fight in spring anyway, Lord Commander? Are you planning a campaign against Dorne, perhaps? If so, you should probably tell Loras about it. Let him know what he's getting himself into if he keeps seeing that pretty thing from the Red Dunes."

"I'm not planning anything," Beric gave back, slightly miffed. "But a knight is always prepared for battle. There are fewer tourneys in winter, but there are other skills we can hone and..."

"Winter won't be here for another year," Danyal cut him off, then took a bite from his roast. "And if you had seen an actual war, one where men die, not the make-believe fights on the lists, you wouldn't be so keen on preparing for battles that may never come."

Beric didn't answer, but Thoros felt him flinch at Danyal's words. Danyal had sworn off his old ways of swindling and stealing when Beric had knighted him one year ago, but he walked the path of redemption with too much of a thief's swagger for his lord's comfort. There was an unspoken tension between them and though it rarely drifted to the surface, Thoros knew exactly what it was about. Danyal had fought in the Rebellion. As an infantryman in the forces of House Sunderland, he had seen the Rebellion's first battle during the Taking of Gulltown when he had been Beric's age. While Beric didn't worry about seeing eye to eye with older lords and knights for the most part, Danyal was a slightly different case. Yes, he had sworn fealty and carried out orders, but his experience paired with his unabashed demeanor caused his lord quite the headache. Beric tried to not let on that it bothered him, but he had his concerns if his sworn sword took him seriously sometimes.

"And there will be tourneys in that year," Thoros decidedly added, glancing to Beric. "Even Renly announced one for the naming ceremony of his son. We should enjoy the autumn while it lasts and worry about winter once it gets cold."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric's mood had notably improved when they reached the Weeping Town before noon on the following day. A cool breeze brought refreshment from the Sea of Dorne and the harvest festival offered many distractions. Farmers and merchants from all over the Stormlands had set up shop on the town square, and their wares mimicked the Rainwood's still summery colors. Bright red apples, orange pumpkins and carrots, bundles of golden wheat and deep purple berries from the forest added autumn tones to the greens of savoy, sprouts, pears, and kale. In the shade of three old, knotty elm trees merchants from Tyrosh offered pomegranates, persimmons, and spices, next to them a man selling sweet chestnuts barely managed to keep up with the demand. His biggest rival in regards to attention was the booth of two elderly women on a corner, two houses down from the Broken Shield Inn. They sold small baskets of plums and tart cherries, and everyone knew it was likely the last local harvest before the season of storms. The Reach would be spared from the harsh weather for a few months longer, and prices of imported fruits would match the long way of the goods.

The port of the Weeping Town was teeming with ships. Every pier was occupied and several smaller fishing boats lay anchored farther out in the bay. The wide, cobbled road leading up to the town square was lined with makeshift stalls and tents of local fishers, and some sold their catch right off their boats on the docks. Except for the Tyroshi merchants' ship, only one larger vessel stood out in the harbor and its presence was among the reasons for Beric's good mood. The _Bright Sky_ with its maize sails and the golden figurehead shaped like a panther had been the first thing he noticed upon their arrival in the town.

"I sense someone is a bit jealous," Thoros noted when they returned to the harbor after taking the horses to the stable behind the nearest inn. "Too bad Lady Satal has no sister you can marry. Unless you convince her cousin to cast his betrothed aside in your favor, it looks like Loras will have all those ships to himself."

"I'm not jealous," Beric lied through his teeth, not taking his eyes of the bright yellow sails. "I'm just glad Loras is here. I haven't seen him in months and his last message said he wasn't sure if he can make it." He glanced to Thoros, then his eyes jumped back to the ship. "And one day, I will have my own ship and travel on it as much as I want. House Vaith doesn't own the only fleet in the realms." Thoros regarded him from the side, not saying anything, but quietly chuckling to himself. After a short while of silence, Beric looked back to him with a slightly reproachful expression. "Fine, maybe I am a bit jealous," he admitted. "But I don't need to own a ship. We could as well book passage and..."

"I can't just run off to Essos, you know that," Thoros cut him off. "I don't enjoy winter, but I'd rather wait it out than risk being assigned a new mission by the High Priest and give up on my cozy arrangement with Robert for good." He paused and looked around for familiar faces among a group of new arrivals from a docked ship, but didn't find any. "And who, do you think, will also be bored out of his mind once the lists outside King's Landing are frozen and covered in snow? His Grace wouldn't take my absence too kindly and I wouldn't want to bite the hand that feeds."

He laughed when Beric playfully pouted and turned away, getting into a huff. "He's the king. Why doesn't he order some fools or mummers to court if he wants entertainment?"

Again, Thoros laughed, grabbed Beric by the shoulders and turned him back around. "What do you think I am?" he asked, playing the truth off as a jesting remark. "I'm as much a priest trying to convert him to the Red God as Jalabhar Xho is an envoy petitioning for the crown's support to win back his throne. We're extravagant entertainers in all but name and we know it." He mimicked Beric's frown and put an arm around his shoulders. "Living the good life in a palace comes at a price," Thoros added. "And it's not that steep, all things considered." Beric sighed and his glance wandered back to the ship, a pensive expression creeping up on his face. "You know, you should come to King's Landing with me after Renly's tourney," Thoros tried to brighten the mood. "Robert was talking about holding tourneys inside the Red Keep. Not that his advisers are excited about the idea of sword fights in the Great Hall, but come winter and the king starts grouching like a toddler, they might just agree."

 

Beric's expression immediately shifted to hopeful excitement, he tore his gaze off the sails and looked back to Thoros. "I don't see how that's a bad idea," he said. "The Great Hall seats a thousand, there's certainly enough room to fight. It would be a welcome change from dull practice at home, even if it's neither a tourney nor a joust."

"It's not the fighting that worries the council," Thoros gave back. "It's housing bored knights and their entourages in the city, and Robert's penchant for elaborate feasts. There hasn't been a winter as long as the one coming for us in decades. They are concerned that frequent raids on the pantry will leave nothing to eat halfway through."

The ship was momentarily forgotten and Beric's brow furrowed in thought. "The king could set a fee for participants. Or perhaps a tax for the time people spend in the city, except it must be paid in food and drink," he pondered out loud after a moment. Thoros was about to comment, but Beric had more to say. Since the change of subject to cheer him up had worked better than expected, Thoros stayed silent and let him speak. "He could also limit participation the way House Horpe does," Beric continued. "Not as a measure of saving supplies, Lord Horpe simply doesn't care for nameless sellswords and hedge knights showing up to his tourneys. Over the years, it has become a matter of prestige as he only invites knights who earned a good reputation elsewhere before. If you don't show a letter with his seal upon arrival, you're left standing outside the gate, regardless of who you are. King Robert could do the same and only send out invitations to knights he cares to see. He could make it a reward for good service or say it's an honor only granted to the most renowned warriors of the realms." Again, Thoros was about to comment, but Beric didn't let him get a word in. The longer he sputtered out his ideas, the more excited he became about them. "It could be a tourney that lasts all through the winter. Each year, the king would send out invitations, keep the best men for the next year and have them face new challengers, until a champion will be declared upon spring. The council would be less concerned with a limited number of visitors per year, the king would get his entertainment and..."

"...so would you," Thoros finished the sentence for him with a chuckle. "Don't tell me you'd say the same if you weren't sure about getting such an invitation. What happened to your knightly vow of humility, greatest warrior of the realm?"

Beric pointedly raised an eyebrow, but the attempt at a glare looked more amused than reprimanding. "I assume I'll be welcome either way," he gave back. "Or does the council also object to you having guests?"

"Sometimes I'm not sure the council remembers I'm there," Thoros said, laughing. "Ser Barristan occasionally asks about my visits to the Stormlands, and I only bump into him because he guards the king. I don't see much of the other members, they're busy running Robert's kingdoms and have no time for making small talk with his fools on the hallway." He looked over his shoulder, down the road to the town square and the ongoing siege around the stall selling cherries and plums. "Of course you'll be welcome," he added and turned Beric around to the square, away from the harbor. "But I'm sure Robert would like to hear your thoughts about his vision of hosting indoor tourneys. It might just be the compromise that will keep both him and the council sane during winter. And now let's see if we can get our hands on some of those cherries, or failing that, find Loras and Lady Satal."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

"I can't come with you to King's Landing right after the tourney," Beric said and made a futile attempt at sheltering his basket of plums from Thoros' shameless theft. "I promised my father that I'll lead the search for bandits around Blackhaven. Before the last season of storms began, there were several bands of robbers hiding out in the caverns and waylaying wagons that came from the Reach and through the Boneway. With a long winter ahead, we can't risk losing any supplies to outlaws." He quietly grumbled when Thoros helped himself to another plum and quickly retaliated by taking some of the cherries.

"Hunting bandits?" Thoros paused, the hand with the stolen plum hovering near his mouth. "If you don't mind, I'll join your party. It's been too long since I had a real fight."

"Why would I mind?" Beric laughed, looking slightly puzzled. "The more men I have the sooner we'll be done with the search and I'll be free to go to King's Landing and speak to the king."

"You're the commander." Thoros shrugged, put the plum in his mouth and strolled toward a table in the shade of the large elm tree. "I can't just invite myself to your mission, my lord." He stepped over the long, wooden bench, sat down and placed his basket on the table. Beric waved to his guards, releasing them from their duty for the moment and allowing them to get their own food and drink, then he joined Thoros and took a seat.

"I appreciate the notion, but you don't have to ask for permission," he said. "I was hoping you'd join us, and I'm sure Anguy will be glad to see you as well. He settled in with my father's guard and enjoys his duties, but he also misses traveling with us and..." He broke off and quickly turned around when a hand reached over his shoulder and stole some plums from the basket, but the twinge of anger immediately faded when he saw the bold thief.

 

"I almost sent some guards to look for you," Loras greeted him with a smug grin. "If I hadn't run into Ser Danyal over by the brewer's stall I would have thought your party got lost in the woods."

"Not everyone is as unaccustomed to hunting as you," Beric gave back and got up to bid his welcome to Loras and his Dornish companion, Lady Satal. Thoros did the same, then offered his arm to the lady and helped her get seated, not the easiest task due to her long, flowing dress.

"I wish I could offer a drink to you," Beric said when everyone sat on the bench and he spotted his guards, still waiting to be served in a crowd around the stall selling cider and wine. "But I fear it will take a while longer."

"Not a long while." Satal smiled and glanced toward the road to the harbor. "I sent my handmaidens to fetch some wine from the ship. Renly won't mind if a few bottles are missing from his order."

Loras laughed when he saw Beric's brow furrow at the mention of the ship and helped himself to some cherries from Thoros' basket. "Bet you're jealous," he noted with amusement, looking back and forth between Beric and Thoros. "A ship full of wine, I couldn't say which of you envies me more."

"Sounds like you made your peace with your grandmother's arrangement," Thoros replied after making sure nobody was listening to their conversation.

Not too long ago, Loras had begrudged the prospect of a betrothal to Lady Satal, now he seemed to enjoy putting on a show and pretending to court her. He exchanged a quick glance with her, both quietly laughed and nodded in unison. "Of course I have," Loras firmly replied. "Show me a man who would not be happy to wed such a beautiful lady!" He leaned over the table, closer to Beric and Thoros, and continued in a hushed tone. "You should see the envious eyes when I declare her my Queen of Love and Beauty at tourneys. Now I don't have to navigate the wild seas of false hopes from whoever I gave a rose anymore. I admit there are more benefits than I first saw."

Satal giggled and inched closer to Loras, subtly leaning forward to Thoros as well. "I overlooked the same thing," she quietly said. "It is rather freeing that I don't have to reject suitors anymore and can rest assured the one I accepted won't try to point his lance in my direction." She abruptly stopped speaking and sat back up straight when Beric's guards returned with jugs and cups. At the same time, two girls in Dornish dresses approached the table from the other side with three bottles of white wine and both groups paused, regarding the drinks the others held with some irritation. "As I said," Satal nonchalantly continued, no longer speaking in a hushed tone. "I'm looking forward to our stay at Storm's End. Lady Margaery hasn't traveled since the birth of her son and I can't wait to see my adorable nephew-to-be again." She glanced to Loras who didn't even seem to be listening and watched one of the handmaidens pour him some wine. "And though Loras has made quite an impression on tourneys at home, he'll appreciate lists not covered in sand."

"I don't mind the sand," Loras gave back and took a sip from his wine. "I just pity the boy I took on as squire. He's scrubbing dust off my armor for hours after each joust. When he heard he'd serve a knight from the Reach, he probably thought he'd get away from the desert for a while."

"Oh, I doubt Amady is disappointed." Satal laughed and took the cup one handmaiden had filled for her. "He seems quite satisfied with the arrangement, wouldn't you say, Tiffaine?" The handmaiden she had addressed blushed and nodded, then quickly went back to pour wine for Beric and Thoros.

"If you're so used to fighting on sand now..." Beric shot a daring grin to Loras and got a raised eyebrow back in return.

"Don't get your hopes up," Loras dryly replied. "I promised my lady she'll be the Queen of Love and Beauty for the..." He paused and turned to Satal with a quizzical look. "...sixth or seventh time this year at Storm's End. You wouldn't know who to crown anyway and I doubt Renly would be amused if you put the laurel on Thoros."

"Careful, Knight of Flowers!" Thoros jokingly puffed up and pulled his basket away from Loras' thieving fingers. "I'm sure your grandmother would be delighted about such a break with convention and the laurel might suit me better than you think."

"It would depend on the flowers," Satal matter-of-factly interjected. "If the laurel is made of yellow roses it would not flatter you very much." She appraisingly studied Thoros for a moment, then a smile of recognition appeared on her lips. "Blue or purple blossoms would bring out your eyes though."

"Ever the artist." Loras shook his head in disbelief and amusement. “I would have picked red out as his color. Or maybe a washed out pink that goes with his cloak.”

“You have no eye for such things,” Satal gave back, making it sound like a disappointed tutor giving her eager student the bad news of his lacking talent. “Maybe we should speak to Margaery before the tourney and suggest using white flowers for the laurel. You just can't go wrong with those, and there are...”

 

“The lady is right, white is clearly the best choice.” Beric's head swirled around when he heard Danyal's voice from behind and he was about to reprimand him for interrupting a lady, but paused since Satal didn't seem to mind in this instance. She smiled and nodded to the free space on the bench next to Beric, though Danyal hadn't waited for an invitation and sat down. “I chose it for my coat of arms as well.”

“You didn't 'choose' it,” Beric corrected. “You took a bunch of buckets the armorer gave you and painted a shield white, then called it a sigil.” He snickered at Danyal's feigned indignation and pushed the jug of wine closer to him.

“I'm not good at painting,” Danyal gave back with a shrug. “And you couldn't name a house with a plain white field for its sigil. It's not easy finding a design that hasn't been claimed by someone else.”

“So you're saying that every single house in the realms has more talent at painting than you?”

Loras' deadpan remark conjured up laughter, even Danyal joined in after a moment, then he reached for the wine and appraisingly eyed up Satal across the table. “Say, that ship in the harbor, is that how you'll get to Storm's End?” he changed the subject while filling his cup. “You don't happen to have a cabin for us, do you? I imagine it's more comfortable than riding such a long way through the mountains.” Beric shot him a stern glare, hoping to remind Danyal of his station and refrain from bold requests to a lady he barely knew.

“The _Bright Sky_ only has three passenger cabins,” Satal replied and Beric's glance jumped back to her. “Mine is fairly small, but I prefer it as it has the largest windows. The two bigger ones are occupied by Loras and my parents.”

“Mine is rather spacious indeed,” Loras added, carefully watching Beric's reaction. “True, the windows in the other cabins are larger, but there are fewer columns and suitable places for hammocks in them.” Beric didn't take the bait, he tried to not pout and silently held his gaze. “I asked the crew for one myself,” Loras casually continued. “They presented me a good selection and said they have more than enough spare ones. On the way, I tried four different hammocks, a new one each night. The first was the kind sailors use, then there was a more...”

“What are you, a rose or a touch-me-not?” Danyal interrupted. “Is that a 'yes' or a 'no'?”

Instead of taking offense, Loras broke out into laughter at Beric's expression, torn between disgruntlement about his sworn sword's lack of manners and relief that he didn't have to swallow his pride and demand a clear answer. “I'd be glad for the company,” he said after catching his breath. “Of course, Lord Vaith has to give his permission, but I doubt he will mind.”


	3. Autumn Bloom

The silhouette of the enormous tower in the distance looked like a fist reaching up into the blue summer sky, though today the massive structure didn't seem all too imposing. The wispy, white clouds rather suggested the fist had beaten the pillows and scattered feathers above Storm's End.

In the morning the party had left the _Bright Sky_ behind, docked in Seabury, a small port village overlooking the Straights of Tarth, and continued the way by horse on the coastal road. Though the village sat half a day's ride north of Durran's Point, the journey had been shorter than it would have been by horse through the Rainwood and crossing the mountainous area around Shipbreaker Bay.

The oppressive heat of the afternoon sun had long replaced the refreshing sea breeze of the past days and the party left out no pond or stream to rest and water the horses. Lord Tibean Vaith and his family and guards rode Dornish Sand Steeds, black as the deepest night and dressed in amber regalia, and the mounts seemed almost irritated at the frequent stops. Their riders, however, were as relieved as everyone else when they crossed the last rocky ridges and caught sight of the tourney grounds on the foothills of Durran's Point.

The preparations for the upcoming tourney were in full swing. Workers were buzzing like bees, setting up pavilions, tents and tables along the lists, stable boys filled troughs with water and erected fences around the areas reserved for the horses. The tall gate had not been decorated yet, but there were ladders leaning against the pale grey walls of the tunnel and crates filled with banners and garlands of flowers waiting for the servants under them.

“I like Highgarden better,” Danyal noted, addressing both Beric and Loras in front of him as they passed through the gate. “Though the choice of stone for Storm's End was better than that of Blackhaven. The basalt walls trap the heat and it gets much too hot in the yard. Your ancestors should have considered that when they built them.” Loras snickered to himself, Beric ignored Danyal's layman assessment of castle architecture, and Thoros patiently waited for the inevitable remark that would follow. Ever since they had sailed along the western coast of Tarth to avoid the wild waters of Shipbreaker Bay, Danyal had raved about the seat of House Tarth. He went as far as saying the Eyrie paled in comparison, a notion rather uncommon for a man of the Vale. “Evenfall Hall, now that's a good castle,” Danyal promptly delivered. “Light walls, a proper port on the foothills, and an island that rivals the splendor of the Reach. It's hard to believe Lord Selwyn hasn't had any success in finding a match for his daughter. I know men who'd marry a horse if they'd inherit lands like these.”

“And none of them has the blood to be even considered by landed knights,” Thoros gave back, keeping a close eye on the wagon loaded with Lord Vaith's good Dornish wine as it slowly made its way through the gate. “Even less by House Tarth or anyone else who traces their lineage back to the days of dawn.”

“Maybe they should reconsider their standards.” Danyal shot him a roguish grin. “What good does an ancient, noble bloodline do them if it ends with a daughter no man of their choosing will wed? Maybe I should speak to Lord Selwyn and offer myself up as a match.” To his surprise, both Beric and Loras began laughing, though neither of them turned around.

“And there it shows that he's only seen the beautiful castle,” Loras said. “He wouldn't talk like that if he had caught a glimpse of the Maid of Tarth.” He paused and regarded Beric from the side for a moment. “Why hasn't he? How can a knight in the Stormlands miss such a curious attraction?”

They stopped and waited as the wagon maneuvered around the corner upon reaching the yard, and Beric answered with a slight shrug. “We've been traveling quite a bit,” he said. “Ser Aydan invited us to Farwatch Keep and we attended several tourneys in the Vale. Then we spent some time in King's Landing for the annual name day tourney, and took a trip to Riverrun as well. We only returned to the Stormlands two weeks ago. He has barely seen the lands around Blackhaven, except for the northern road to Ashford and Harvest Hall.” He looked over to Danyal and Thoros, then back to Loras. “Besides, though he improved his sword skill considerably since we first met, I'm not sure he could pass the trial Lady Brienne asks of a betrothed. After all, the last man willing to wed her was a seasoned knight and he still went home with broken bones.”

Danyal wrinkled his nose, crossed his arms and scoffed. “Hardly my fault if my lord doesn't provide better training,” he countered. “Maybe I should ask Lady Brienne if she is such a good fighter.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

After a somewhat reserved yet friendly welcome, the Dornish visitors were led to the gate of Storm's End's colossal tower through a maze on the yard. Tent parts, planks for stages and other equipment that hadn't been brought to the tourney grounds yet was scattered around, along with droves of servants and workers shouting instructions to others.

Renly waited until a long, heavy table had been carried toward the gate between him and the stables, then he crossed the short distance to the unexpected guests Loras had brought. “It has been much too long,” he greeted Beric and gave him a strong hug. “You've made yourself scarce in the Stormlands,” Renly teasingly added. “That wasn't quite what I meant when I said you better keep a bit of a distance if you don't want to trifle your good standing with my brother away.”

“I follow the call of the lists,” Beric answered the playful reproach. “Storm's End has been awfully quiet in that regard until now.”

“I've merely been saving my voice to call louder in the future.” Renly smiled a secret smile and shot a quick glance to Loras. “The past year required more of a whisper, but it will not stay that way for too long. But enough of that. You're certainly not here to discuss politics, and I don't wish to bore you.” His eyes fell on Thoros, patiently waiting with Danyal and Beric's guards. “But speaking of politics, you truly are a madman! Showing up here ahead of the tourney and traveling with a Tyrell? You'll never hear the end of it once my dear brother found out about the company you keep.” He went around Beric, gave Danyal a polite nod and grabbed Thoros in a big hug.

“Robert knows I went to Blackhaven to hunt in the Rainwood,” Thoros gave back when Renly let go. “He won't need to hear any details about how I got here. Besides, he's ranting on about you and the 'stench of roses' you carry any chance he gets as it is.”

“At least the stench won't rub off on you, I'm afraid,” Renly said. “As you can see I'm still terribly busy with the preparations for the tourney, and my wife will be occupied with our guests.” He looked up to the tower, then glanced across the bustling yard. “I can offer you accommodations, of course, but I'm expecting the party from Highgarden in the evening and...”

“...can't have prying ears during supper with them and Lord Vaith,” Thoros finished for him. Renly smiled apologetically and nodded, relieved he hadn't had to explain the situation. “I'm sure we'll keep ourselves fed and entertained,” Thoros assured him. “There's a quaint, little tavern we passed on the way. If you need privacy with your guests, we'll just stay there for the evening.”

“Much appreciated.” Renly turned to the gate to the Great Hall with a smile and gestured invitingly toward it. “But I bet you're dying to meet the future lord of Storm's End. Come in, I will make introductions.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The solar was cool and more pleasant than the yard where the heat was pent up between the walls and the preparations for the tourney swirled up the dry dust with each step. Apparently, Renly had been studying a tome before the arrival of his first guests, as he quickly went around the desk to close it, then offered them seats in ornate armchairs by the cold hearth. Above it, an empty, dark spot on the wall glared at the group and after sending a servant for Margaery, Renly acknowledged it without anyone asking. “I threw the dreadful tapestry out,” he said, almost sounding gleeful about this innocuous decision. “Another bloated, dead boar with a 'proud Baratheon hunter' standing above it. I considered sending it to King's Landing at first, but then I figured Robert would put it up in a prominent place and people I like might have to see it.”

“Not to fault your taste in decoration,” Thoros said, regarding the dark rectangle on the light stones with furrowed brows. “But this isn't very sightly either.”

“It will be.” Renly's eyes twinkled in the sunlight flooding in through the windows. “And it shouldn't be long until you see why.” He nodded to a servant entering the room with a tray, balancing a selection of light summerwines, leaving the man puzzled with the vague choice of drink. “An artist from Oldtown, the best I could find, is working on a much sightlier painting. Margaery and I, surrounded by roses, holding Ghyslain between us.”

Just as he said the name, Maester Jurne stepped through door, and was immediately overshadowed by her presence when Margaery followed. She carried a babe in her arms and the smile only a proud mother could smile played on her lips. The child was no older than a few months, but its head was crowned by a thick tuft of black hair, standing out in stark contrast against the light green dress Margaery wore.

“Look at him!” Renly stood up from the armchair, giving Margaery dangerous competition for the brightest smile in the room. “Isn't he beautiful? His mother's nose, her brother's hazel eyes, and black of hair! Who's the 'true Baratheon', when my kingly brother didn't pass on the black shroud and I did?”

The guests stood up from the armchairs and went closer to greet Storm's End lady and her young son, only Loras seemed somewhat indifferent, having already seen the main attraction before and not sharing his sister's excitement. Though Beric didn't recognize Margaery's nose on the child, the black hair and bright hazel eyes were enough to cast a shadow of doubt on his mind. Maybe the boy had Renly's blood, after all. Maybe Loras had made up an outrageous story back in Dorne, a crass joke as his way of voicing frustration about his family's schemes. Maybe Margaery and her grandmother had done charity work the day Beric had seen them leave in servants' clothes, just as they had claimed. Maybe it had only seemed suspicious because of what Loras had said the night before, and he would have been well aware of their plans for the day. Would Renly be so happy and proud if he wasn't the father? Would he put on such a show just for his friends' sake? Beric had almost made up his mind about the matter when he noticed the intense stare Loras' directed at him over his sister's shoulder. _Forget everything I told you in Dorne_ , his eyes said, not joking at all, _forget everything you saw or might have wondered about_. Beric swallowed and subtly nodded as he joined Thoros and Danyal, and the silent assurance seemed enough for Loras to rest his concerns.

“Now that's a Tyrell nose if I ever saw one!” Thoros leaned down to the boy, then appraisingly regarded the mother and shot a glance to Loras for good measure after that. “The resemblance is truly uncanny indeed,” he confirmed his findings.

“He'll look like Willas one day,” Margaery replied, running her fingers through the babe's black tuft of hair. “At least in winter,” she then added, as if the statement needed further elaboration. “Willas' skin barely darkens in summer, he's pale through all seasons just like our mother. But one afternoon in the garden, even in the shade of a pavilion, and Ghyslain resembles Renly after a visit to Dorne.” She laughed and both Renly and the babe joined her in that.

“May I hold the little lord?” Thoros asked as the child seemed at ease around the unfamiliar faces.

“If you want him to cry and scream,” Margaery replied with a sweet smile and Thoros quickly declined with thanks when she held the child out to him. The brief moment of separation from his mother was enough to make the babe frown and pause from looking around with big, curious eyes, but the gathered group was spared from further disgruntlement or tears.

“I've seen that look on his uncle's face,” Danyal noted. “Several times, always moments before he yelled at his squire to bring him more wine on the last tourney.”

The mention of Robert didn't diminish the good mood this time, instead Renly was beaming at the remark and Beric swallowed when he noticed it from the corner of his eye. Still, even with Loras' reminder fresh in mind, he couldn't bring himself to speak shameless lies. “To me, it looks more like his other uncle grumbling over his bad luck in the draw,” he said, glancing to Loras. “When he suspected Old Mary Mertyns might get to face Gregor Clegane before him, he was on the verge of tears and a tantrum as well.”

“Old Mary Mertyns?” Loras laughed and gave Beric a nudge on the way back to his chair. “It was you who almost stole my spot in the big finale. You're only alive today because you didn't get in my way in the end.”

“Ghyslain needs sleep,” Margaery cut off the conversation. “I'd rather not have him grumpy when my family arrives. And our guests should have settled in by now.” She regarded Thoros, Beric and Danyal for a moment, then exchanged a quick glance with Renly. “They are expecting us for refreshments in the garden.”

“We should be on our way then,” Thoros stepped in. “Arriving prematurely has its advantage. We can claim the best spot for our tent on the tourney grounds before there's competition and we also have plans to sample the local wine in that little tavern by the coast.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Maybe we should stay here before the tourney begins.” Danyal leaned back in his chair, took a sip from his wine and watched a group of musicians walk in through the door of the tavern. These were not ordinary minstrels from the area, that much was evident at first sight. They were well-dressed and their helpers carried expensive instruments not many troupes could afford. Given the time and location it was likely they had been hired by Renly and were a bit early for the celebration. “Looks like we won't be bored if they do the same.”

Beric regarded the troupe for a moment as they stored the instruments away in a corner, then spread out across two larger tables and waved the tavern wench over. “We should,” he said. “I don't want to be in Renly's way or make him think he's obliged to entertain us when he's so busy with the preparations and his other guests.” He looked to Danyal and nonchalantly pushed an empty mug closer to him. “Rent the best room this place has and get us some new drinks as well.”

Danyal rolled his eyes, grabbed the mug and got up from the table. “You really need a new squire,” he said, though it sounded more like he was teasing than annoyed with the order.

“I still don't see the urgency,” Beric gave back with a roguish smile. “As far as I'm concerned you're doing the job well enough.”

“Glad to hear my service finds your approval, Your Highness.” Danyal chuckled, took his mug and Thoros', then went to the bar.

Once he was gone, Beric noticed that Thoros was quietly laughing to himself and halfheartedly tried to hide it behind a slice of sweet bread. “What entertains you so much?” he inquired and quickly looked around in the common room, then back to Thoros. The musicians had just settled in on their tables, most were busy giving their orders to a rotund tavern wench and wouldn't start playing for a good while. Other than them, nothing promised any diversion or amusement, as most patrons were local farmers and a group of fishers from Tarth.

“Someone's afraid Renly might open the wine cellar tonight,” Thoros replied, still chuckling. “Or that Lord Vaith will hand out samples from his wagon and I'll indulge too much to keep my mouth shut.”

Puzzled, Beric raised an eyebrow. “Loras is at Storm's End,” he said when Thoros didn't explain further. “Who else would have reason for such concerns? I don't think anyone else knows that we know...” He paused, looked around and leaned closer, though nobody was paying attention to their conversation. “That we know what happened in Dorne.”

Now Thoros laughed louder and shook his head. “You think I'd still be around if I had a habit of drunkenly spilling such delicate secrets?” He, too, looked around for potential eavesdroppers on nearby tables, though only to make a show of it, then leaned closer to Beric. “That secret is safe, no matter how drunk I might be during the tourney. But I'm not sure the recollection of our first visit to Storm's End is locked away in such a well-guarded place.”

Beric's head immediately spun around, his cheeks flushed and he glared at Thoros like a rabbit sensing a starved pack of wolves. “Don't you dare!” he got out between clenched teeth and this reaction was only more reason for Thoros to laugh. “I was drunk and not quite myself, and it's been years and...” Beric stammered, and Thoros chortled more with each word. “Swear to me you won't tell Danyal!” Beric demanded and straightened his back in a weak attempt at looking imposing. “Or anyone else. Swear, or I'll spill every cup you get close to during the tourney, even if I have to forfeit the joust altogether!”

Thoros was gasping for air and only slowly gathered himself enough to stop laughing. “I'll swear,” he began in a comically earnest tone. “On one condition.”

“And what condition is that?” Beric skeptically raised an eyebrow and grumbled when Thoros puckered his lips instead of giving an answer. He was about to retort, but before he could get a word out he heard Danyal's voice and tried in a hurry to compose himself.

“What is that?” Danyal chuckled and put some stacked mugs and a jug of wine on the table. “Are you practicing to woo Lady Brienne? I heard she's unsightly, but I was unaware she has a beard.”

“I swear,” Beric heard Thoros whisper, then he felt a kiss on his temple and internally sighed with equal parts relief and annoyance.

“Lucky us early birds,” Danyal said, filling a mug for Thoros, then one for himself. “Got us one of the better rooms for tonight, just before the minstrels stormed the counter and seized every free bed in the building.”

Beric glowered at Thoros, still much too amused for his liking, then quickly reached for the mug Danyal pushed toward him and took a swig, only to spit out the beverage and cringe at the terrible taste. “Are you trying to poison me?” he got out, shuddering with disgust. “What in the world is that awful swill?”

“Vinegar, my lord,” Danyal nonchalantly replied. “Seems like you need a new squire, after all.”

“You almost as bad as Anguy used to be before my father made him a guard,” Beric grumbled, then quickly stole Danyal's mug from under his hand and washed away the pungent aftertaste with the wine.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Before nightfall approached, the tavern became more crowded than it had been during the late afternoon. Small groups of travelers arrived from the northern castles of the Stormlands, including familiar faces like Lord Buckler from Bronzegate and Lady Shyra Errol from Haystack Hall. As Danyal had predicted, some of the minstrels performed songs and recited poems after the troupe had finished their meals. Chatter and music filled the common room and the mood was elated, however, there was one thing that failed to make an appearance. Cool air, just a small breeze every once in a while, would have been a blessing, but no wisp of wind blew through the wide open windows and doors.

Beric wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed the mug of warm ale away in slight disgust. As pleasant as the conversation with Lady Shyra and her younger brother, Lord Sebastion, was, it didn't make up for the lack of refreshment. On top of that, 'pleasant' was the most polite term to describe the ongoing chat. At first, it had been mildly amusing that Danyal tried to charm Lady Shyra, yet only managed to catch the interest of her brother when he shared stories about recent tourneys in the Vale. But by now, most of those tales had been exhausted and the recollection of the festival at Riverrun impressed the young lady even less, to a point where her disinterest shifted into slight annoyance. Lord Edmure's idea of a good celebration differed considerably from hers, involving more wine, women and gambling than she found proper. Lord Sebastion, on the other hand, found it as amusing as Danyal and Thoros and therefore no change of subject was in sight. For a while, Beric made small talk with Lady Shyra, about the upcoming celebration at Storm's End, the much too warm weather and their painfully uneventful journeys on the road from Seabury to Durran's Point. But the heat in the room began wearing both of them down and when the conversation fizzled out, the lady sent her handmaiden to bring her a book.

“Maybe one of us will have better luck with Lady Brienne,” Danyal teasingly whispered, leaning over to Beric while Thoros told Lord Sebastion about the mayhem of Riverrun's melee. “This one's too pretty for me anyway,” he added when Beric only shot him a reproachful glance. “Too ladylike, too proper, though she probably shares your idea of 'fun'.”

“I was just having a conversation,” Beric gave back in a hushed tone. He glanced to Lady Shyra and was relieved seeing her read the small book of poetry her handmaiden had brought instead of paying attention to the men and their discussions. “Unlike you, I'm not chasing every skirt I come across.”

Danyal snickered and regarded Lady Shyra from the corner of his eye, then looked back to Beric. “Don't play coy, you can't tell me that a prim damsel like her doesn't meet your high standards.”

“She reminds me too much of my cousin,” Beric tried to put an end to the discussion before Lady Shyra noticed she was the subject of it.

“Exactly my point,” Danyal replied with a roguish grin. “All the allure, none of the shared blood. You should...”

“I'll take a stroll,” Beric cut him off and got up from the bench. “Maybe I'll find some refreshment outside. Now that the sun is setting there's hope the wind from the coast will pick up.” He looked out of the window behind the bench he had left, but found his hopes disappointed. The small willow grove around the lake on the other side of the road was as still as a painting, not the slightest breeze swayed the trees.

Danyal's gaze followed Beric's and his brows skeptically furrowed when he looked up to him. “You don't plan on going for a swim in that lake, do you?” he asked. “It's getting dark and dark waters hold many dangers.”

Irritated, Beric turned around and stopped a few steps away from the table. Until Danyal had mentioned it, a swim in the lake hadn't been on his mind, but now the thought seemed rather appealing. “The sun hasn't set yet,” Beric gave back, amused by the seemingly earnest warning. “And we passed this lake on the way earlier today. What dangers would there be that we haven't seen?”

“I don't know.” Danyal shrugged and reached for his mug. “But I've grown up by the sea. There are things out there that men cannot comprehend. Malevolent creatures, restless spirits of drowned sailors, mischievous mermaids and the like.”

Beric laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “It's a lake, not the ocean,” he said. “I doubt it's large enough to house any sea dragons or kraken.”

“Suit yourself.” Danyal wrinkled his nose at his lord's dismissal. “But don't say I didn't warn you of the lurking unknown.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The absence of wind and the enduring heat of the day had warmed up the water, but the lake still promised the much needed refreshment from the sticky air of the tavern. Though no unknown dangers lurked on the banks, Beric weighted his clothes down with a rock after stacking them on a large boulder under the roots of two ancient trees. The lake was crystal clear and unlikely to hide any mythical monsters, but the hope for a sudden gust of wind from the coast lingered in the back of his mind. _Spirits of drowned sailors_. Beric laughed to himself when he waded into the water. This lake wasn't even large enough for a skiff, walking around it would be faster than launching and boarding a boat.

But as small as the lake was, the refreshment it brought was all the greater and Beric reveled in the cooling water, washing away the sweat and dirt as he crossed the distance to the opposite bank. Something had caught his attention over there, though the dusky light of the evening and the shades of the willows made it hard to see details and Beric was curious to find out what it was. It appeared to be the remains of a campsite, rocks arranged in a circle, three branches that might have held a pot or kettle and an oval object that Beric thought was a wooden shield. It would be amusing to take it back to the tavern and telling Danyal about a fight against pirates who had come out of nowhere on a buccaneer twice the size of the lake. Or maybe a haunting tale of almost being dragged under water by a giant kraken and fending it off with pieces of armor found on the beast's most recent victim. Danyal probably didn't truly believe his yarn about such monsters, but if he did indeed buy into such superstition, this was the perfect opportunity to get back at him for past pranks.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I think my luck has run dry.” Thoros laughed and declined the invitation to another game of ninepenny marl against the tavern's reigning champion, Ser Jeroll of Bronzegate, by pushing the coins of the lost wager toward him. “But if the same can't be said for my wine, I'll treat the next challenger to a cup.” He got up and his chair was taken by a new contender even before Thoros had made his way through the crowd of onlookers to the table by the window. The wine he had left there an hour ago was likely boiling by now or had been emptied by Danyal, wherever he was. At least Lady Shyra probably hadn't touched the jug, as she was quietly reading her book and only occasionally took small sips from her cup of hippocras.

Thoros stopped short when he reached the table and spotted Beric's black riding coat on the backrest of Danyal's chair. He was fairly certain Beric had worn it when he left for his stroll, but then Ser Jeroll was a generous champion and had bought two or three rounds during the game. The heat and the wine had probably just taken their toll or he just hadn't paid attention to what Beric was wearing earlier. Thoros pushed the chair aside and grabbed the jug, finding it empty as soon as he lifted it off the table. Ser Jeroll's contender could wait a bit longer, he decided. After the tense game, he had earned a moment of peace and quiet, so he sat down on the bench under the window and waved for the tavern wench to come over. Lady Shyra was still silently reading her book, 'The Gentle Season', a collection of poems about spring, according to what Thoros could make out on the cover. Since he didn't want to disturb her, he leaned back and caught a light breeze of evening wind as he waited to make his order.

 

“Shhh! Thoros!”

The hushed voice startled Thoros and woke him up from a brief slumber. He had only closed his eyes for a moment, but it had been enough to doze off a bit. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the wench approaching the table and it confused him that she couldn't be the one who had said his name. He glanced to Lady Shyra, but she and her handmaidens seemed equally puzzled and looked around for the source of the whisper as well. “I'll have a new jug,” Thoros told the wench. “And bring two cups of wine to Ser Jeroll's table.” The wench nodded and took Lady Shyra's order before making her way through the tavern's crowded center to the counter. As soon as she had left, there was the whisper again, clearly addressing Thoros, though the voice was even more hushed. “Excuse me, my lady,” Thoros quietly turned to Lady Shyra. “Did the heat get to my head or did you hear someone call me as well?”

Before Lady Shyra could answer, one of her handmaidens shrieked and jumped up from her chair, frantically pointing to something outside the window and all eyes on the table followed there. Thoros quickly turned around and leaned out of the window, expecting a stray wolf or maybe a band of daring bandits, but the dusky light of the early evening revealed that something far more amusing had upset the lass. Beric, red as a freshly caught lobster and evidently lacking his clothes, cowered behind the lone birch tree on the meadow outside. He used a broken buckler and his free arm to cover himself, and probably used all the willpower he had to wish himself into the ground. Lady Shyra gasped in disgust at the improper sight and pulled her sorely shocked handmaiden away from the window. Thoros, now even more confused than before, just blankly stared and tried to gather his thoughts, until Beric's hushed plea urged him to action. “Do something! I can't go back inside like this!”

It was enough to wake Thoros up from his puzzled daze. He got up, grabbed Beric's coat from the chair, climbed over the bench and jumped out through the window. “How the fuck did that happen?” he asked when he reached the birch tree and Beric hastily tore the coat from his hand. “Are you injured? Was this a robbery or...?”

“Danyal,” Beric pressed out between gritted teeth. “I'd bet all I have on him being the culprit.”

“Frankly, that's not a lot right now,” Thoros noted, relieved this was likely just a prank and not a real danger.

Beric blushed brighter at the remark and if looks could kill, Thoros would have dropped dead on the spot. “Where is the damned bastard? I swear to you, he won't make it alive out of that tavern!” He laboriously tried to put on the coat without dropping the buckler and glared to the window over Thoros' shoulder with red-hot rage.

“Don't even acknowledge it,” Thoros calmly gave back. “It will only draw attention you don't need. Right now, most patrons are distracted by Ser Jeroll. He plays a mean game of ninepenny marl and buys rounds for his table.” He took off his faded, red cloak and held it up in front of Beric, blocking the line of sight from the window. “You'll get your chance and pay him back sooner or later. But if you call him out now, it just makes things worse.”

Grumbling, Beric finally dropped his buckler, got his other arm into the sleeve and pulled the coat closed. “Oh, and how I'll pay him back,” he snarled, then took a few long, deep breaths to calm himself down. “You're right, not giving him the outrage he wants is the best I can do now. But one day, he...” He broke off and his eyes narrowed again and when Thoros shot a glance over his shoulder he saw Danyal at the window, snickering and waving Beric's pants and shirt like a flag.

“Remember what you just said,” Thoros reminded him. Beric quietly nodded, still frothing with anger, and stomped toward the window.

“You should have heeded my warning,” Danyal greeted him with a guileless smile. “I told you there are unknown dangers lurking, but you wouldn't listen.” He nonchalantly dropped the clothes and watched Beric catch them as they fell. “But there's a silver lining, my lord.” Beric glared up, yet another failed attempt at killing with looks, but he didn't answer and hurried to get dressed. “Though she's probably too proper to admit it, I think you managed to impress Lady Shyra, after all.”

This time, Danyal got a reaction along with another furious glare. “I stand corrected,” Beric gave back through gritted teeth. “You are _worse_ than Anguy ever was.”

Danyal smiled blithely, briefly disappeared, then dropped Beric's boots out of the window. “That's all I wanted to hear,” he said as if Beric had finally found an important insight long lost. “Can't blame a man for trying to excel at something, can you?”


	4. Bearing North

Out here, the comforts of New Castle felt like a distant memory of a different world. White Harbor had been teeming with life and chatter filled every street and alley, a stark contrast to the eerie silence, only disturbed by the rushing of the White Knife. The rumors regarding a possible expansion of the port had drawn skilled workers from the surrounding settlements to the city in hopes of filling their pockets and pantries one last time before winter. Lord Manderly's bold plans promised employment for carpenters, builders, roofers and smiths, and in the wake of their arrival business would also pick up for innkeepers and merchants near the harbor. It was a lofty ambition to construct two new wharves as well as a dockyard meant for repairs and maintenance, and extend the walls toward a settlement just outside the city. Lord Manderly envisioned the quaint village as the location of a secondary market square and a smaller dock, and had also presented plans for the construction that would begin in spring.

 

“We must adjust to new opportunities from the East,” he had told Stannis. “If we want a prosperous future, we can't depend on the southern realms forever. The cost of supplies rises higher and higher each winter and the exports can no longer sustain what we pay.” He had rolled out a large map, not minding that the parchment buried bowls and plates on the table, and firmly pointed his finger in the nothingness of the Shivering Sea. “We have good relations with Braavos, and we can expand on that if we have the facilities to accommodate sailors from farther away.” The massive finger wandered up higher, to where the map covered a bowl of mutton chops, and stopped over the jittery outlines of a small island. “Ibben.” Lord Manderly's voice carried pride and conviction, as if he personally had been the one who discovered these shores.

“Go on,” Stannis had answered, though Lord Manderly hadn't needed further encouragement to share his plans.

“Our silver mines can barely compete with the volume of precious metals from the Westerlands,” Lord Manderly continued. “What we need to stay a viable trade partner for the southern realms and Free Cities are new sources and different goods. The Ibbenese have gold, silver and tin, sought-after pelts from beasts not found in Westeros.” He took a bite from a sausage, almost comically slim compared to his fingers, chewed and gulped, and waved over his maester. “Take a look at these letters I exchanged with the Shadow Council. They are interested in my proposal.” Stannis had read the scrolls the maester had handed over and Lord Manderly had kept talking without interruption. “In the short term, both sides would benefit from the stimulation of imports. The Ibbenese seek new buyers and we can help find them across the Seven Kingdoms.” He paused to devour the rest of his sausage, then moved the map aside just enough to find his cup of wine. “Maybe not all of them,” he added after pouring down the drink he had uncovered. “But in the long run, this partnership could pay out in other ways. If there's one thing the North has in abundance it's cold waters and the Ibbenese might agree to an exchange of information. Teach us their ways of hunting for whales in the open ocean, how to process the beasts, make use of their bones, blubber and meat.”

“And for now, your profit would come from the taxes.” Stannis looked up from the scrolls and reached for his wine.

“Precisely.” Wyman Manderly nodded. “This is also an opportunity for closer cooperation with the Vale. The Three Sisters especially face hardships similar to us Northerners during long winters and Lord Sunderland thinks more ships from Braavos and Ibben could bring relief.”

“I recommend you speak to Lord Borrell directly as well,” Stannis interjected. “Give him an incentive to keep the Night Lamp burning and make sure his men stay in line. You wouldn't want your new friendship to start off with ships shattered on Sweetsister's shores.”

Again, Lord Manderly nodded and gestured to the maester. “Send a raven to Breakwater immediately,” he said, then turned back to Stannis. “Lord Sunderland will arrive in three weeks and perhaps Lord Borrell can join our meeting, even if the invitation comes on such short notice.” He paused and studied his guest's expression, then he leaned closer to pose his request. “If the crown would endorse this undertaking, I'm sure the Shadow Council would be inclined to make further investments down the road. There is one particular merchant from Ib Nor, a well-respected member of the Thousand, who already struck a deal to supply lumber for the construction with me ahead of a formal agreement. And should the king show interest in this venture, there are other, very lucrative offers on the table.”

“Tell him you have the crown's support.” Stannis got up from his chair, though the feast was far from finished. “I agree with your notion that the North needs new perspectives and these documents show much promise in that regard. Once I return to King's Landing, the Hand will send you a written endorsement with the king's seal. We'll discuss the nature of those 'lucrative offers' once the dock has been built.” He was ready to leave and already looked to the door, but Lord Manderly's voice made Stannis pause and remain near the table.

“There is one other matter I would address,” he said. “It won't take long and reveal nothing new, but I would be grateful if you could bring it up to the Council once more.”

“The roads,” Stannis plainly noted. It was hardly surprising indeed, Lord Manderly's plans merely shone a new light on an old issue, one that had been discussed at least once every year among the Small Council. It had never seemed pressing enough during summer. There was always something else, somewhere else, that took precedence over it. The North was too far away, too removed from the concerns of other realms, and House Manderly was the only frequent pursuer of the subject. The condition of the roads through the Barrowlands, even the Kingsroad, required attention, Lord Manderly insisted. The bad shape they were in made the transport of goods to the inland unnecessarily cumbersome and dangerous, and it got worse the harsher the weather became. “There's nothing the Council can do about it,” Stannis gave back and the brisk statement made Lord Manderly slouch his enormous shoulders in resignation. “But perhaps Lord Stark can,” Stannis continued. “I'll be riding for Winterfell tomorrow. If the roads are as bad as you say I'll discuss the matter with him.” He went to the door and paused again before stepping out into the hallway. “I can't promise that anything will be done about it. You know as well as I do that there are more pressing concerns than your wagons. But your dealings with Ibben might sway Lord Stark to look further into the matter, and persuade the crown that the Kingsroad should be better maintained.”

Lord Manderly nodded, now looking more hopeful. “I'll take one well-maintained road over none,” he gave back. “For now, that is all I can ask for.”

 

And now, it was all far away. The opulent feast, the crowded streets of White Harbor and the promising prospects for the future had been replaced by the uncomfortable truth of Lord Manderly's words. The northern roads were in a bad shape, much worse than Stannis had expected, and the tristesse of the landscape seeped into the mood.

“A 'summer lord', that's what a northman once called me.” Stannis stoically kept his eyes on the badly maintained road along the austere, forlorn banks of the White Knife. “Meant to tell me my life was easier than his. Tell me, Davos, have you ever had your troubles swept away by nothing but sunshine?”

“I have not, my lord,” Ser Davos earnestly answered the rhetoric question. “Though I also don't have any complaints about the warm, southern weather.”

Stannis vaguely nodded without looking over. “It's good to be grateful for what you have,” he said, but before he could add anything else, he was cut off by the whinnying of the horse and a cold gust of wind. With a resigned sigh, Stannis pulled the reins and directed his mount toward the river. “But there's a silver lining on the horizon,” he muttered, more to himself. “If the strange sightings beyond the Wall turn out as nothing but superstition, there's at least a real concern I can bring up to Lord Stark.” He dismounted the horse and waved the guards over. “We'll rest here for a few hours. It's as good as any place we'll find farther north.” His gaze wandered to the sky, veiled in a thick blanket of puffy, grey clouds. “And I'd rather forgo rest and comfort now than risk getting caught up in the storm before we reach Winterfell.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The crashing of thunder rumbled over the the Lonely Hills, adding some variety to the constant drumming of hail on the roofs. The candles flickered as if they could hear the rage of the sky, and the flames in the solar's small hearth roared higher as well.

“What are you looking for?” Leiff closed the ledger, pushed it aside and reached for an empty scroll in the drawer. Kareena balanced on a ladder, holding a candlestick in one hand and brushing over the back of the books with the other, and she had been up there, going through the shelves, for a while. “Maybe Benjen can help you,” he added. “He's been reading a lot lately and might know where to find which book.”

Kareena paused and turned her head just enough to face him. “It might not be proper,” she replied. “But I'm trying to learn about raising chickens and thought there might be a book that can teach me. I asked a maid yesterday and she said a lady doesn't have to bother with such dirty work.”

“She's right, you don't have to,” Leiff gave back with a slight shrug. “And there are no books about it as far as I know. Such things are passed down from father to son by the farmers and most of them can't read or write.”

“I know I don't _have_ to.” Kareena placed the candlestick on top of a tall shelf and descended the ladder. “But how many embroideries do we need to get through ten years of winter? How many dresses can your sister and her doll wear?” She brushed the dust off her gown and went to an armchair by the hearth, turned it around and sat down, facing Leiff's desk. “I've done 'proper and ladylike things' all my life. They just aren't useful, even if I enjoy some of them.”

“Your wood carvings are useful,” Leiff said. “I thought you enjoy making them and travelers often buy one or two as keepsakes after their stay.”

“But how many travelers come here in winter?” Kareena's gaze drifted to the window behind Leiff where the storm rattled the shutters. “There were not many during summer either. The few coins they pay for a carving are just a drop in the barrel and won't keep us fed.” When Leiff only stared at his empty scroll for a moment and gave no answer, Kareena got up from her chair and walked up to the desk. “You don't know what it's like if there are 'too many of you' and you are brought up feeling redundant. I was thrilled when my grandfather betrothed me and sent me far away to live in the North. Not because I had childish dreams of being a lady, but because I thought I'd find a real purpose here, something more than keeping my mouth shut and looking pretty.”

“But you _are_ my lady now,” Leiff sternly interrupted. “You're not a maid or a nanny, you married a lord and you knew what that would entail.” His expression softened under his wife's glowering glare, his lips almost formed a chuckle and it made her pause in confusion. “You don't need to search books and study in secret,” Leiff continued. “Go and find the maid who brushed off your request. Remind her that you are the lady and she'll take your orders, and that it's not up to her to decide what work is proper for you.” He dipped the quill into the inkpot, then his hand hovered over the empty scroll. “Order her to teach you or point you to a farmhand who can do it.”

Now a smile of realization replaced the frown on Kareena's face and a spark of determination glimmered in her eyes. “A farmhand will be a better choice for those lessons,” she noted and glanced down to the still empty parchment. “Are you going to ride to the settlement by the Long Lake tomorrow or did you change those plans due to the storm?”

Leiff nodded and pointed to the scroll with his quill. “I will leave in the morning, unless the storm doesn't cease overnight. I'm making a list of things I need to remember. Tools the carpenters asked me to replace, herbs and spices we ran out of to restock the pantry and Maester Faelan needs...”

“Can you buy some geese?” Kareena sweetly interjected. “Just two or three and a gander would be enough. Perhaps I can learn to breed them as well.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Leiff gave back, scribbling a note down on his scroll. “We should have enough room in the pen and geese don't require much food. If I find some for sale, I will buy them.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Harrion stopped short and chuckled when he saw Leiff return from the village, almost forgetting the unbuckled strap of the saddlebag he held in his hand. “Didn't Lady Kareena ask you to bring two or three geese?” he asked once Leiff had come closer. “There are more than that on the wagon and I'm fairly sure those two are not even geese.”

“A dozen geese and three ganders,” Leiff gave back and nodded to his two companions by the rickety wagon. “Johan, the man who breeds them, and his granddaughter Madilyn. They'll come with us and spend the winter at Frostspear Hall.” Harrion regarded the pair with some skepticism and continued to fasten the saddlebags on his horse. The man looked ancient, his wrinkly face half-hidden under a long, unkempt beard. The girl was six, maybe seven, and curiously eyed up the horses from her seat on the wagon, pulled by a malnourished, grey mule. “They left Last Hearth to not burden House Umber during the winter,” Leiff brushed away Harrion's apparent concern about the invitation to strangers. “We used to have geese when I was little because my grandfather liked them,” he added. “My father always preferred chickens, so he never thought to find a new breeder when my grandfather died and the last goose was eaten. I have no preference one way or another, but this chance was simply too good to pass up.” He laughed and waved over a guard to help when the old man tried to climb onto his wagon, heavily loaded with clucking birds and the man's few belongings. “I'm sure Wynne will like having another young girl around. She's been feeling lonely since Dayana was sent to the Vale and Kareena and I won't give her a little nephew or niece for a while.”

Once his work was finished, Harrion mounted his horse and directed it toward the trampled path leading out of the village. “I bet Lord Frey had no idea how far the dowry he paid you would get you out here,” he quietly said when Leiff pulled his horse closer to lead the small procession on the way home. “How much did you pay for a cartload of geese?”

“A chamber with a hearth and the prospect of keeping the girl on as a servant once she's a bit older,” Leiff whispered back. “He's an old man, old enough to believe he won't see the next summer. The girl's mother died in birth, her father was killed by wildlings a few months ago. She has no kin left but him. I'm not buying his geese, he traded them for the girl's future.” He pulled the reins and the horse began trotting down the trail, followed by the guards and the creaking wagon. “I didn't spend much of Lord Frey's money,” Leiff added, now speaking louder. “There are expenses to pay and I knew they were coming. Benjen's passage to Oldtown, the fee to the maesters for his education. All I bought from the dowry so far was good wine for the wedding.”

 

The small group had reached the banks of the Last River and now traveled alongside the rushing water. The terrain was more forgiving here than on the rocky path through the Lonely Hills. Though the route was a day or two shorter, the wagon loaded with cackling geese would have had trouble getting across certain passages, it would probably have prolonged the journey instead of saving time. It was not only the flatter ground of the valley and the wide, open river that allowed colder winds to chase the party from the west. The sky was obscured by a blanket of thick, grey clouds, towering high and changing shape in constant motion. There was a storm brewing somewhere over the northern mountains, perhaps a foretaste of snow and hail blowing inland from the Bay of Ice.

“We'd better hurry.” Leiff looked up the sky and the blustering clouds, then back to the river where the guards watered the horses. “If we keep up today's pace we'll make it home before nightfall and hopefully avoid the brunt of the storm.”

“We're making good progress,” Harrion gave back and handed Johan on his wagon a bucket of water for the geese. “I doubt we can outrun the weather with the wagon, but we should reach the caverns in the foothills for shelter by dusk.” He returned to Leiff who sat by a small fire and stirred a pot of mulled wine. “The hunters haven't found wildlings hiding there for several months, so it should be safe to spend a night there if need be.”

Leiff was about to answer, but the thundering of hooves from the distance made him look past his hunter and down the path instead. Harrion turned around as well and both of them stopped short when they spotted a rider approaching in great haste. It was Gesson, Leiff recognized when the horse had come closer, one of Frostspear Hall's most seasoned guards. “Did something happen?” Leiff greeted him before Gesson's horse came to a halt by the fire, and got up from his seat on a rock.

“You must return to Frostspear Hall at once, my lord,” Gesson answered, out of breath. Though the message he brought had to be urgent, there was a distinct lack of gloom in his voice. “Guests have arrived and...” He paused and took the mug of mulled wine Harrion handed him to take a sip.

Leiff furrowed his brow and stepped closer. “That's hardly an emergency,” he replied. “My mother usually takes care of such matters. Why would my presence be needed? Are there more travelers than we can accommodate or are they causing any problems?”

Gesson shook his head and gave the empty mug back to Harrion. “No, it's not that, my lord,” he said. “It's a small group and I doubt they'll cause any trouble. But both Lady Hannah and Lady Kareena agreed that you should be present during their stay.” He took a deep breath, adding further emphasis to the words that followed. “Lord Stannis Baratheon and Lord Eddard Stark are among them.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Leiff rode like lightning, so fast Gesson's horse could hardly keep up. There was no time to lose and Harrion could take the rest of the group to the foothills on his own. He knew the austere landscape as well as anyone, and as much as Leiff valued his counsel, Harrion was of little help when it came to unexpected guests of such importance. But then, who was prepared for this occasion? Ser Tytos Frey, who had witnessed Leiff's wedding in the place of his father, had been by far the most renowned visitor Frostspear Hall had welcomed in years. One time, when Leiff had been ten years of age, Torrhen Karstark had spent a night in the guest chambers and a son of Lord Umber had stopped by two years ago during Leiff's absence. As far as people of name and status were concerned, nobody else even seemed to remember the small keep in the Lonely Hills. And now the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark, arrived without warning, accompanied by the crown's master of ships. Even the king's presence would have been less puzzling, though Leiff knew that His Grace had never been farther north than White Harbor during his reign. His friendship with Lord Stark would have been enough of an answer and Leiff would have thought they were on the way to Karhold or Last Hearth. But Lord Stannis had little reason to be here. He didn't entertain friendships with Northern lords, there were no ships at Karhold that might concern his business and Last Hearth lay inland, almost a week's ride from the nearest coast.

Just when the towers of Frostspear Hall came into view and the clouds burst, releasing a downpour of cold rain and hail, Leiff wondered if this was perhaps a prank of the guards. If Lord Stark, for some reason, wanted to pay a visit to Lord Umber or Lord Karstark, would he really have made the long journey in such harsh weather? This was hardly the first storm in the past weeks and the maester's predictions said it would only get worse in the following months. Lord Stark would have sent a messenger as usual, unless there were truly pressing matters he had to attend to himself. But nothing of note had happened in the region. There were no rumors making the rounds in the settlements and Harrion had nothing to report either when he came back from hunts with men from Last Hearth. That Stannis Baratheon was traveling with Lord Stark's party lent even less credibility to the claim. The king's brother simply didn't leave the capitol for his leisure, and if he did he certainly didn't favor long rides in the rain.

 

Yet when Leiff dismounted his horse in the courtyard, everything confirmed that Gesson had told him the truth. There were more horses than usual in the stables, a group of guards stood under an awning outside the gate to the Great Hall, engaged in idle chatter and wearing the colors of the houses Baratheon and Stark. Through the windows of a hallway Leiff saw Maester Faelan's lanky shape scurry about, apparently giving instructions to servants passing through from the kitchen. Leiff hurried toward the door to the pantry, buying time to take off his soaked cloak and look somewhat presentable once he was inside. Hopefully the maester could tell him what was going on, what the guests in the Great Hall might expect from their host.

Maester Faelan looked relieved when he saw his lord enter the hallway and stepped away from the door to the kitchen to let a maid through. “It is true then?” Leiff asked, shaking rain out of his hair and glancing toward the Great Hall. “That's really Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Stannis Baratheon sitting on our table in there?”

The maester nodded, looking somewhat stumped. “Frankly, I never met Lord Stark myself,” he gave back. “But I recognize Lord Stannis. He attended a tourney at Brightwater Keep just before I started my studies and he hasn't changed all that much in all those years.” A servant brought a cloth from the kitchen, and the maester waited while Leiff dried his hair.

“Why are they here?” Leiff plainly asked when he was done.

“I didn't want to pry,” Maester Faelan replied, took the cloth from Leiff's hand and gave it to a maid on her way into the kitchen. “But I've heard them speak about Lord Karstark and an expansion of the docks in White Harbor. I reckon they are passing through on their way to Karhold.”

A servant hurried toward them, carrying the surcoat Leiff had worn at his wedding. “Did they ask to speak to me?” Leiff turned back to the maester and began opening the clasps of his soaked riding coat.

“Not directly,” Maester Faelan answered. “We gave them the best chambers the keep has to offer, served them the wine we had left from the wedding and now they're having supper with Lady Kareena and Lady Hannah.” He glanced down the hallway to the Great Hall again. “It was them who urged me to send for you, since they ran out of ideas how to entertain such esteemed guests.”

“As if I knew what to do now,” Leiff muttered under his breath, but he straightened his back after closing the clasps of his surcoat and made a few steps down the hallway. “Clear up my desk in the solar,” he said when he stopped by the door. “They might want to speak in private and I left quite a mess before I rode to the Long Lake.”

 

The Great Hall appeared daunting despite the welcoming arrangement on the long table. Apparently the cook had improvised and managed to prepare several courses despite the poorly stocked pantry. There were empty soup bowls a servant gathered on a tray while roasted rabbit was being served by another. Four men sat at table with Kareena and Leiff's mother, engaged in a conversation and drinking wine. Leiff recognized two of them, Lord Eddard Stark and Winterfell's guard captain, Jory Cassel. It was not hard to guess who the remaining two were. Though Stannis Baratheon looked nothing like his brothers, the timbre of his voice gave him away. The older man next to him held a cup in his hand, displaying the missing joints of his fingers as if to make it easy for Leiff to see who he was.

Somehow, Ser Davos Seaworth's presence put Leiff's mind at ease as he went toward the table. Perhaps this was the piece of the puzzle he had been missing, the reason Lord Stannis had come this far north. Lord Karstark had voiced concerns about Skagosi raiders in the past, to no avail. The constant threat of attacks had made attempts of establishing a port at the mouth of Karhold's river futile. Sailors avoided the dangerous waters around the Grey Cliffs and rather took their business south to the safer harbor of Widow's Watch. If the party was on the way to Karhold, maybe Ser Davos' expertise at sea was the reason. A former smuggler of his skill and renown might have solutions Lord Karstark had not yet considered.

 

“Lord Warryng.”

 

Leiff froze when Lord Eddard Stark addressed him, but he quickly pulled himself together and approached the table. Kareena and Lady Hannah, both wearing the gowns made for the wedding, turned around, looking relieved that Leiff came to their rescue. They had been quietly chatting with Jory Cassel while the three other men were absorbed in their conversation, but it had been evident by their demeanor that the situation was overwhelming for them.

“Condolences for the loss of your father,” Lord Stark added. “He was a good man and he'll be missed in the North. I only heard of his passing upon my arrival, please forgive me for paying my respects with such delay.”

“News travel slowly here,” Lord Stannis noted and appraisingly regarded Lord Stark for a moment, then turned to Leiff. “Please accept my condolences as well. It is a hard thing to deal with the loss of a father. I never met Lord Frydrick, but I have great respect for him and I know he raised you well.” Lord Stark shot a quick glance to Stannis, apparently surprised to hear familiarity and recognition in his voice. “Served as a squire,” Stannis explained when he noticed Lord Stark's momentary confusion. “My brother was plotting to steal him from his knight. Kept talking about it to slight his own squire.” He leaned back when a servant placed a plate with roast in front of him and nodded to Leiff. “Not his fault. If only half of what Robert said about him is true, I understand why he'd prefer him to Lancel.”

 

The conversation felt almost casual during the main course. Being recognized by Lord Stannis, if only in a superficial way, eased the tension and made Leiff feel less like an imposter wearing the too big shoes of his father. But what really broke the ice was the carved owl figurine, sitting on the table in front of Ser Davos. Kareena had noticed Leiff's eyes following it when the Onion Knight absently picked it up and inspected it while a servant poured new wine into his cup. “He saw the figurines for sale on the way to the Great Hall,” she whispered to Leiff. “He suggested Lord Stannis should buy one for his daughter, but he said she wouldn't like them. So Ser Davos bought it instead, saying he was sure she would like it, as she had no owl yet for her collection.” Though the subject of toys and keepsakes didn't come up, hearing about this exchange made the esteemed guests seem more human instead of larger than life legends from another world.

As Maester Faelan had guessed, the transport ways of the North were the central theme of the discussion. The maintenance of the Kingsroad, new prospects of trade with the islands of Ibben, the difficulties wagons faced when traveling inland. Though nobody mentioned raiders from Skagos or Lord Karstark's troubles, the topics brought up made sense of Lord Stannis' journey to the North. However, Leiff still wondered why he traveled by land. An experienced sailor like Ser Davos didn't fear the treacherous waters near Karhold, and taking a ship from White Harbor would have saved them the hardships of the Northern roads. But it was not his place to question Lord Stannis' choices, so Leiff didn't bring up this subject to him.

“If you have private matters to discuss, Maester Faelan can show you to the solar,” he offered when the impromptu feast came to an end and they got up from the table. “And if you wish to rest, our best chambers are ready for you as well.”

“Go ahead, tell the men to get some rest,” Lord Stark turned to his guard, then he looked to Stannis. “This will be the last proper bed we'll see on this journey.”

Stannis nodded to Ser Davos and glanced to the gate, a silent order to relay the message to his guards, then he followed Lord Stark to the door where Maester Faelan waited. Before leaving the Great Hall, he paused and regarded Leiff for a moment. “There'll be work in White Harbor soon,” he plainly said. “It will be a long, harsh winter. Things might get dire out here. If you can spare anyone, now is a good time to go and find greener pastures.”


	5. Knights Of Summer

Lord Alesander Staedmon had put up a good fight and the crowd's breathless excitement had only found relief in the third pass. One moment of distraction had given Beric the upper hand, then Lord Staedmon's shield shattered under the well-aimed tip of the lance. While the herald formally announced the outcome, Beric slowly returned to the end of the list and let his eyes wander across the cheering spectators left and right. He had no doubt that he'd defeat Ser Justin Massey in the finale later that evening, but the confidence in his victory came at a price. Loras' half-joking remark from last week echoed in Beric's helmet, along with the uncomfortable realization that Loras was right.

Not having a clue who to crown as Queen of Love and Beauty had never been much of an issue in the past. Many big tourneys forwent the tradition and left it up to the victorious knight if he wanted to honor a lady with the laurel or go straight to the host's table and indulge in food and wine. Even King Robert's tourneys ended in feasts bordering on bar fights, with plenty of drinks, crude jokes and the occasional brawl over an especially juicy slice of roast. Renly, however, was not his brother. He preferred the pomp and circumstance of chivalry over wild celebrations and rivaled the Reach in regards to meticulous compliance with tradition. There'd be a dance and there'd be a lady wearing the laurel, no discussions about it, no excuses and no way out. Just a plethora of potential pitfalls and gaffes floating on the treacherous waters of social ambition, political liaisons and proper etiquette.

The longer Beric pondered his options the more he thought that maybe he had gotten too used to the king's way of hosting tourneys. Not that he had any intentions of getting drunk or starting fights over the best piece of a pigling, but sharing tales of adventures with knights far from sober held more appeal than Renly's starchy celebration. Beric dreaded the dance and the polite, courtly small talk, but neither enough to let Ser Justin win. Had it been Loras in the finale, that would have been a serious consideration. Giving the victory to a friend who'd make good use of the attention would be honorable enough for Beric's taste, even if it would mean his first defeat in the Stormlands. But it wasn't Loras. Loras had lost to Ser Justin an hour ago and ever since blamed his defeat on being too distracted by the presence of his beloved lady. Behind closed tent curtains, both he and said lady hysterically laughed about this excuse, but people outside ate it up and raved about the glamorous romance.

Beric's gaze drifted through the crowd, the thoughtful expression hidden under the blackened helmet, and for a moment his eyes almost wistfully rested on King Robert on the wooden dais next to Renly. His Grace was in high spirits and raised his horn to a toast as Beric rode by, then leaned to his brother and apparently the brief conversation between them remained peaceful for once. How easy it was to keep tensions from rising, Beric thought, now slightly amused. The very same trick had served the Tyrells well for many years, adding a joust to any given event lulled the king into an amicable mood and preserved the public image of good relations with the crown.

Not far from the dais, but closer to the fence, Beric spotted Ser Garlan Tyrell, talking to Loras and Lady Satal. The two 'lovebirds' had clearly taken lessons from Renly and Margaery, as they looked infatuated with each other even from this distance. Maybe, Beric thought, he should crown Satal as his Queen of Love and Beauty after defeating Ser Justin Massey. Keep Loras' promise that she'd wear the laurel and cause a small scandal to draw more attention to the pair. That was why they were here, to be seen together and make their relationship known outside of Dorne, wasn't it? It was an opportunity of sparking more rumors, they'd probably appreciate it. But then, Margaery would certainly not be amused. Remembering that, Beric doffed the idea and looked around for other, more innocuous options.

He had almost reached the end of the list when his eyes found House Errol's party. Lord Sebastion and his group of friends cheered and toasted along with the rest of the crowd. His sister, however, stood there stone-faced like a statue, not cheering, not clapping, not even looking at him as he rode by. Quickly, Beric turned his head to the other side of the list. Much to his relief, Lady Shyra had kept the disgraceful incident from the tavern to herself and it would be wise to do nothing that might change her mind.

 

The welcome Beric received by the end of the list was loud enough to drown out the embarrassing recollection of Danyal's prank. A horde of excited boys scrambled around the horse, pushed and shoved their rivals out of the way, trying to get Beric's attention. “You still think I need a new squire?” he called to Thoros over the noise the boys made around him. He held out his shield above their heads, and it was immediately grabbed by four pairs of hands. “Why settle for one if I can have a small army of them?” As if his point hadn't been proven yet, Beric handed the lance down without looking as well, and it too was quickly taken and carried away. “See? Everything is being taken care of.”

Thoros made his way through the throng of would-be squires and helped Beric dismount the horse. “I'll remind you about that when we're back on the road and you complain about your guards' terrible cooking,” he said, then waved two of the boys glaring at him closer and let them assist Beric with his armor. “Besides, if Robert makes his dream of a winter tourney come true, you'll find fewer helpers in the Red Keep, if any at all.” Beric raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask what that was supposed to mean, Thoros looked around and addressed the boys. “Which of you would like to squire for Ser Jaime? Or maybe for Ser Barristan Selmy or...” He didn't get to finish the question as the answers were as excited as they were loud. “They'd be there all through the winter,” Thoros turned back to Beric with a triumphant smile. “And if Robert goes along with your suggestion to limit the guests, there'll be fewer boys without knights to go around.”

“Fine. You made your point.” Beric sighed resignedly and gestured toward his tent in the distance, showing the boys holding his armor where to take it. “I'll think about it. But not now, not today.” He waited for the boys to scatter and take the armor and horse away, then stepped closer to Thoros. “Today, I'll need a queen more than a squire. I'll have to put the laurel on _someone_ after the finale and I'm at a loss who to pick.”

“Don't look at me!” Thoros laughed and put an arm around Beric's shoulder. “There are enough ladies here who'd wear the crown better.” He led Beric away from the list and toward a large pavilion where the first spectators took their seats for the upcoming performance on the wide, wooden stage.

“I'd rather not step on anyone's toes,” Beric explained when they walked over. “After all, wars have been fought because a knight crowned someone else's lady. And I've been away from the Stormlands for too long to know who has laid a claim to which lady. I was hoping you picked up some gossip during the joust and...” He abruptly stopped, turned on his heel and dragged Thoros in another direction when he spotted Lady Shyra and Lord Sebastion a short distance ahead.

Thoros followed him through the arrangement of benches and chairs and sat down when Beric stopped at the end of the last row. “Lady Olenna,” he dryly suggested. “I haven't heard any rumors, but nobody would dare laying claim to the Queen of Thorns.” Beric answered with a reproachful glare and sat down. “Queen Cersei?” Thoros tried again. “You'd save His Grace the displeasure of having to dance with her and I'm sure he'd be more than grateful for that.”

“You're a great help,” Beric grumbled and kept watching the seats fill with spectators in front of them. Occasionally his eyes rested on a well-dressed lady, then wandered on when she was joined by a possible suitor. “I should speak with Lady Margaery in private,” he added. “Perhaps she has a friend I can crown later. If nothing else, she probably knows who I shouldn't pick if I don't want to upset anyone.” Thoros was about to reply, but somebody less concerned with who he upset didn't give him that chance.

“That maid better show her teats!” Robert's voice thundered through the audience area, interrupting the actor who had appeared on the stage and announced the play would be 'The Maid of the Misty Wood'. There was laughter, genuine from some guests, polite and restrained from others, and the actor waited for the crowd to calm down.

“Good luck with that,” Thoros said and leaned back with crossed arms. “I have a feeling she and Renly won't have many private conversations today.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros' prediction couldn't have been more right , though Margaery certainly had the less troublesome time with her duties. After the drawn out, flowery play detailing the romance a rebellious noblewoman had found in the arms of the Misty Wood's knight, many women had gathered on Margaery's table to chat and see the child in whose honor the tourney was held. Even Queen Cersei had abandoned the royal party's table and joined them along with her three children. Removed from the king's company, she was smiling and chatting away with some of the ladies. The exception of the merry gathering was a bored-looking Prince Joffrey, apparently complaining about the lack of entertainment to Ser Jaime, to no avail.

Renly, on the other hand, didn't have the luxury of shutting down the nagging about the very same grievance. King Robert was just as bored as the prince, but he voiced his complaints much louder than him. The play had ended without exposing the maid's breasts, the wine was too sweet and the musicians played the wrong songs. There would be no melee, there hadn't even been an archery competition and no wagering took place near the lists. It bordered on mockery to call this a 'tourney', no wonder the guests were bored and hungry, with nothing but sappy music and fruity appetizers as diversions before the finale of a much too short joust. The fact that this celebration was a child naming ceremony and not a tourney outside the gates of King's Landing seemed to escape His Grace completely. If anyone had tried to appeal to his conscience before his departure from the Red Keep, the plea to keep up appearances had fallen on deaf ears.

“Maybe I should make Renly wear the laurel.” Beric glanced over his shoulder to the host's table and kept poking around in his salad, yet another small entree served ahead of the feast. “He's the one who insists that someone must wear it. And I'm sure the king's mood would improve if I crowned his brother, so if someone wants to call it 'improper' or 'scandalous' they can take it to him.”

Thoros looked over as well and drank some sips from his wine. “Not the worst idea,” he said after studying Renly's struggle against losing his patience with the king's ongoing stream of complaints for a while. “He looks good as a distressed damsel, it's no stretch to presume he'd also make a good queen.” Beric listlessly scoffed, pushed the salad bowl away and reached for his ale. “Though maybe it would be more practical to ask him for suggestions.” Thoros poured down his wine and inched a bit closer. “I'll distract Robert, you'll quickly ask Renly. Margaery may be closer to the local ladies, but he should have at least some insights.” He nodded to the rose trellis under which Margaery held court with the babe. “And it's easier to distract a drunk Robert than get a private word with her before the finale.”

“I'll feed this to the horses.” Danyal got up and gathered the salad bowls from the table, then paused and shook his head, looking over Beric's head to the bickering brothers. “If you need me, I'll be discussing the flower arrangements with Old Mary Mertyns. Even if you blindly picked a queen and accidentally offended some would-be suitor, the repercussions would be more pleasant than listening to the petty quarrel over there any longer. They already ruined a perfectly enjoyable play with their constant heckling.” Thoros and Beric exchanged a puzzled glance, but before either of them could inquire if Danyal was serious about enjoying the play they found themselves alone at the table.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Your Grace, may I have a word?” Thoros slammed a carafe filled with Lord Vaith's delicious red wine on the table. “Undisturbed, if that would be possible?” He glanced to Renly when the king looked up from inspecting the beverage, silently insinuating it was him who he found to be a 'disturbance' for this conversation.

“About time someone serves me a real drink!” Robert grabbed the carafe, filled his cup with the wine and absently waved the two kingsguards away with his free hand. “Go ahead,” he grunted over his shoulder. “Go look at the babe. Thoros won't try to kill me and the danger of me dying from boredom has just been averted.” He got up from the chair and nodded to a small, empty table under a golden pavilion, then took the carafe and his cup and watched Ser Barristan and Ser Arys walk over to the trellis where the women were gathered.

“This matter doesn't require _such_ secrecy,” Thoros began when he followed the king to the pavilion, but His Grace cut him off with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Even if you want to discuss the shape of an especially impressive pile of horse shit it will be more entertaining than this dull celebration.” Robert sighed and placed the carafe on the small table, sat down and looked around for his squire. “Find more of this wine!” he called out once he had spotted Lancel in a short distance, undecidedly hovering about between the two tables. “It's better than the piss we were served with the lettuce,” he added, more to himself, refilled his cup and expectantly looked to Thoros.

“I was wondering if something could be done about the lack of entertainment myself,” Thoros began. “There are no bookmakers here, but with your permission I would like to arrange some small wagers nonetheless.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure they were not overheard by Renly, and continued in a hushed tone. “The outcome of the joust's finale doesn't make for good bets, but there are other 'events' that promise interesting odds. Who'll be the first to stumble during the dance? Who'll drunkenly fall from his chair when the good wine is served? Which lady will overestimate how many drinks she can handle and lift her blouse or dance on the table?” He took the cup Robert had filled and emptied it in one go. “Your brother may not approve of such bets, but he doesn't need to know about any such wagers.”

The king's sullen expression had shifted to gleeful amusement by now and he was quick to fill the lone cup again. “I'm glad you're suggesting this now, after the play,” he said and toasted to Thoros. “If you had brought this up earlier, I'd have lost a tidy sum already. I was so certain the misty maid would show her teats at some point!” He guffawed and gestured for Ser Mandon Moore to come over. “He'll take the bets,” the king keenly explained. “Not much of a talker, but he has a good memory, I give him that.”

“We should start at Lord Wylde's table,” Thoros said when they got up from their chairs. “I saw Ser Ormund fall asleep during the play and his squire had to wake him up twice because he started snoring. The man might need the entertainment even more than we do.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Just one more transgression on the long list of my brother's mistakes.” Renly sighed and leaned back in his chair when Beric approached the host's table. “He should have knighted Thoros at Pyke, not Jorah Mormont. Robert's choice is disgraced and exiled while mine saved me from certain doom in an impressive display of chivalry. Another complaint about the food or entertainment and I would have perished under the crushing weight of annoyance.”

“Now I fear I'll end up in your dungeon.” Beric went around the table and sat down next to Renly, taking the king's chair after seeing His Grace, followed by one of his guards and Thoros, heading for a group of tables on the opposite side of the tourney grounds. “Though I'm not complaining outright, you put me in a difficult position by insisting on the crowning of a Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Renly skeptically raised his eyebrows and reached for his cup of Arbor Gold. “That's your own fault,” he flippantly gave back. “I expected Loras to win and didn't give much thought to other possible victors.” He waved a servant closer and nodded to Beric, silently pointing out his glaring lack of a drink. “That makes us even in regards to awkward outcomes, wouldn't you say?” He laughed when he noticed Beric's glowering expression and continued in a more amicable tone. “I'm jesting. Though it frankly didn't occur to me that somebody else might end up in the finale. Loras still doesn't have much competition. Don't take it personally, but you haven't been around much recently, so the possibility wasn't at the forefront of my mind.”

“And that is the reason for my concerns.” Beric leaned back to let the servant place a cup in front of him and fill it with ale from an ornate jug. “The gossip from home didn't reach me in the Vale and the Riverlands. I've never been close with the knights of the Stormlands either and now I have a hard time catching up. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction and name a few ladies I could crown without upsetting a suitor I was unaware of.”

“You should ask my wife.” Renly laughed and toasted to Beric. “She always enjoyed playing matchmaker in the Reach. Now that she lives here, she has a whole new realm to pair up.”

“We are even now, if we weren't before,” Beric gave back with a chuckle. “You won't get the victor you wanted in the joust, and Margaery would have been my first choice for this kind of counsel.” He looked over to Margaery's table, still surrounded by at least two dozens of guests. “However, I doubt Thoros can lure away that many women from her, though he'd certainly tell me otherwise.”

“In that case, your second choice will try to give you the second best counsel.” Renly's gaze wandered across the tourney grounds, not searching for anyone in particular, then it rested on the table of a small, chatting group. “Lady Kasmyra Wensington,” he said. “Margaery finds her to be rude and clumsy, which might explain why nobody courts her as far as I know.”

Beric leaned closer to see where Renly was looking, then paused and turned to him with a puzzled face. “She's old enough to be my mother,” he noted. “And she doesn't look particularly un-courted to me. If I had to guess I'd say the man next to her is her husband.”

Renly glanced to the table again, then he shook his head and quietly laughed. “Not her, that's Lady Kasmyra's mother. I mean the girl to her left.” He sloshed the wine around in his cup, looked over once more and finally shrugged. “Though I suppose you have a point, Kasmyra is fourteen, fifteen at best. Not a good choice if you don't want to raise any eyebrows. Maybe Lady Shyra Errol then. She...”

“No,” Beric quickly and firmly cut him off. “We met before the tourney and I'm certain she'd take it the wrong way.”

Renly regarded him with some irritation, then took a sip from his wine and studied the group surrounding Margaery intently. “That's regrettable,” he said. “I think she'd make an excellent queen, but I'll take your word for it.” After waving a servant over and having his cup refilled with wine, Renly turned back to Beric with the spark of a sudden epiphany in his eyes. “Lady Ginnefaya Gower. She returned from fosterage at Sunhouse a few weeks ago. Her father made it known that they are looking for matches and hoping she'll be wed before winter begins. Lady Ginnefaya approached Margaery about the matter on the first day of the tourney, which tells me she hasn't found an eligible suitor yet.”

“And what will they think if I crown her with the laurel?” Beric stared at Renly in disbelief. “I didn't even know Lord Gower has a daughter until just now. I certainly wouldn't want him to think I'm the match they're seeking. I have no intentions of getting wed before winter, especially not to a woman I never met. That kind of implication only invites trouble and...”

He broke off when Maester Jurne approached the table and leaned closer to Renly, whispering to him while looking up to the sky. “I will, I will,” Renly brushed him off. “Though the weather won't be audacious enough to ruin my celebration, you said so yourself only one day ago.” He sighed and glanced to the maester, then his eyes searched the tourney grounds and found Robert, Thoros and Ser Mandon Moore. “But my brother will if he doesn't get his diversions, so go ahead, find the herald and send everyone to the lists.” Renly got up from his chair, emptied his cup and looked down to Beric. “As much as I'd like to help you with this dilemma, I fear we ran out of time.” He snickered as he put the empty cup on the table. “Crown Brienne of Tarth, that's the best advice I can give you. She'll bash in your head right away and you won't have to worry about implications or consequences when you're dead.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Time had moved slower during the last pass of the finale. Just for one heartbeat, right before the lance burst and shattered Ser Justin's shield, the thought of missing on purpose had flashed up in Beric's mind. But he hadn't missed. Ser Justin had barely managed to stay in the saddle, the herald had officially announced Beric as the victor and brought a laurel made of white and blue roses to him. The breathless anticipation of the spectators enhanced the feeling of time standing still, yet it wouldn't last forever. Beric had to make a decision, had to crown someone now, and the temptation to put the laurel on Renly's head flared up once more.

On the fence left of the dais, Beric saw Thoros and Danyal whispering with a small group of men and he noticed King Robert glancing over, as if he expected a signal from them. Whatever that was about, right now it did not matter. The herald had reached Beric and presented the laurel, nothing would matter until the cursed thing adorned someone's head. Beric took a deep breath, then he reached for the laurel and cleared his throat. If this silly tradition amused Renly so much, fine, he'd get a queen, but one who shared Beric's sentiment about this charade.

 

Lady Brienne's face reddened when she heard her name called, but it was not the coy blush of a lady. It was the red-hot resentment of a woman who dreaded having all eyes on her. However, for a moment nothing happened and the crowd kept staring at Beric instead of the newly appointed queen. People remained silent, looked at each other, puzzled whispers were exchanged, until all of a sudden roaring laughter broke out. The realization that this wasn't the joke he had meant to make hit Beric like a hammer when he saw Brienne's pained expression. No, she wasn't a beauty, not at all. But she was a lady all the same and didn't deserve the mockery the crowd met her with. His hand clutched the laurel, almost crushing the blossoms, as he defiantly stomped across the list toward his queen. Maybe, he thought, Renly did have a point about upholding this tradition. The knights gathered at Storm's End desperately needed a lesson in true chivalry and they would get it today.

“Now that's a queen for you!” King Robert guffawed as if this was the best joke he had ever heard and leaned over to Renly. “If you had hosted a real tourney, maybe the champion would have crowned a real woman!”

The next roll of thunder came not from his mouth, yet Renly's answer, if he gave one, was drowned out nonetheless. Just as Beric reached Lady Brienne, the clouds burst open and unleashed the sky's fury in all its might. Here and now, the season of storms had begun and the rain pent up during ten years of summer came crashing down on the tourney grounds all at once. Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed through the sky and the thick, dark front of clouds that the wind pushed inland from Shipbreaker Bay. People shrieked and scrambled for shelter, ran for the pavilions and tents, but got soaked long before they were even halfway there.

Beric dropped the laurel, jumped over the fence and tore off his cape as he landed on his feet. He quickly draped it over Lady Brienne, grabbed her arm and tried to drag her toward the tents, though he couldn't tell if she was merely stunned by the sudden downpour or angry at him. “The black tent in the first row!” he shouted through the noise of the rain, and to his surprise Brienne didn't protest and followed him in that direction. The meadow was rapidly turning into a swamp and it wasn't easy to cross the distance in full armor, but Brienne didn't seem to mind the slow pace. Though she wore a long, blue summer gown she moved as if it was armor and would not have made it to the tent faster on her own.

 

As soon as they stepped through the curtain, Brienne tore the cape off her head and shoulders and threw it, soaked wet as it was, onto a chair. “It must be such a disappointment that the weather ruined the moment,” she said, blatant bewilderment and scorn in her voice. “Now nobody is here to laugh at your joke.”

“I didn't mean to offend you, my lady,” Beric began, but Brienne cut him right off.

“I'm not a lady,” she sternly informed him. “Nor am I a 'Queen of Love and Beauty'. I wear this...” She scoffed and tugged the dripping wet skirt of the gown. “...as a favor to Lord Renly. To spare him the king's complaints about allowing a woman to wear armor, not to give the likes of you more reason to mock me.”

“I never mocked you, my...” Beric broke off, struggled for words and tried again after removing his gauntlets. “The men who laugh about you used to shun me as well. They called me 'dull' and said I had nothing to offer. Ridiculed me for refusing to partake in whoring, gambling and drinking, for upholding my oath. They came around with my growing success on the lists, but I still feel no more a bond with these men than you do.” He threw the gauntlets onto the table, went to the trunk standing on the foot of the bed, opened it and took out a stack of towels, then returned to Brienne. “I understand I put you in an uncomfortable situation,” he continued when she did not interject and just kept glaring at him. “But I didn't do it to mock you. I treat every lady with respect, whether she likes to be addressed by this title or not.”

Brienne reluctantly took the towel he offered her and began drying her hair with it as best as she could, then put it on top of the dripping wet cape on the chair. “My apologies,” she said, her voice now softer, more pensive. “I spoke too hastily and didn't consider my words. You are not known to keep the company of these men, I should have remembered that. Being belittled and laughed at wherever I go has made me too wary, I suppose.”

“None required.” Beric put one pauldron onto the table, where a small puddle had formed under the gauntlets and helmet, then began opening the straps of the other one. “I can't fault you for misreading my intentions. That's on me, and I understand your reaction.”

She nodded and her eyes followed the second pauldron to the table, then she looked back to Beric, fumbling for the strap of the gorget on the back of his neck. For a moment it was quiet, except for another rumbling of thunder, and Brienne thoughtfully watched Beric unstrap the gorget. “What were your intentions?” she then broke the short silence, her expression genuinely puzzled by now. “Why did you name me if it was not a joke?”

Beric shrugged, threw the gorget on the pile on the table and pulled the chair closer. “I knew you would sooner kill than expect to marry me,” he gave back, put one foot on the chair and began unstrapping the greave from his boot. “And that there is no suitor who could take offense if another knight encroached on his lady.” He put the greave aside and opened the straps of the other one. “Apologies for being so blunt.”

“None required.” Brienne stepped away from the curtain when a gust of wind and rain blew in. “I didn't expect flattery to be your reason and I'm grateful you chose to not insult me with lies.” She took another towel from the stack on the table, wrapped it around her arm and tried to wring out the soaked sleeve of her gown, with little success. “At least the storm spares you from dancing with me. As I said, I'm not a lady and frankly that means I'm a terrible dancer. My father hosted Lord Renly when he came of age, and he still clung to the hope of finding a match for me at the time. He had invited young lords and knights from all over the Stormlands, but they all laughed at the notion and mocked me. Until Lord Renly asked me to dance, that made them all shut up in an instant.” She sighed and threw the towel onto the table, then paused and skeptically watched Beric try to open the straps of his breastplate. “He showed me such kindness, and what did he get in return? I stepped on his toes thrice during the dance.”

“I remember that celebration.” Beric paused and looked up to Brienne. “It was the first event I attended as a squire.” He chuckled to himself and resumed his attempts at opening the stubborn buckles. “I never admitted it to my knight, but it left a lasting impression on me. People acted as if dancing was a punishment akin to public shaming. Ser Garvan later praised Renly's chivalry as if he had spared other men from a mortal disgrace, not merely opened the dance with the host's daughter.” He sighed resignedly when the buckle still didn't give up its resistance. “In a way, your reluctance to act like a lady has made me a bad dancer as well.”

For a moment, Brienne just silently stared at him, then her stern expression betrayed slight amusement. “You really should have known better than naming me as your queen if you remember that,” she noted, shoved his hand away from the buckles and tried to open them herself.

 

The storm whipped cold rain and splatters of mud into the tent when the curtain opened, then Danyal and Thoros hurried inside, accompanied by another crashing of thunder. “No, we're not through with this!” Danyal yelled at Thoros over the noise of the raging weather. “I won the wager and I want my money! Blonde is blonde, who cares what His Grace considers a 'lady'?”

“Yelling at me won't get you the money. You have to take it up with Ser Mandon.” Thoros went around the chair and grabbed the last towel from the table to dry his hair.

Instead of replying, Danyal stopped dead in his tracks and furtively regarded Brienne from head to toe, as if he had somehow not noticed her presence before. The disgruntlement faded the longer his gaze lingered and made way for a smile as bright as the first sunbeams breaking through dark clouds after a a sudden shower in spring. “You know, I think Ser Mandon can keep the money,” he said, addressing Thoros, though he didn't take his eyes off Brienne. “There might be a much better payoff to my wager.” He quickly glanced to Beric, then threw the mud-covered laurel onto the pile of wet towels on the chair. “If my lord gives permission, of course. May I speak freely?”

“Maybe I need to take back what I said about the company you keep.” Brienne stepped away from Beric, leaving the remaining straps of the breastplate unopened, and imposingly planted herself in front of Danyal. “Or perhaps I am the fool everyone tells me I am, for believing you didn't mean to ridicule me and...”

“My lord meant no offense, I can assure you his intentions were noble,” Danyal cut her off, seemingly irritated by the insinuation. Beric exchanged a dumbfounded glance with Thoros and got only a silent shrug for an answer. “It may not be knightly to name you as queen solely because he is bored by courtly small talk, but please don't hold it against him. Celebrations like this can be dull and I understand why he would rather share rousing tales of battle with a warrior. But I promise your company will be appreciated beyond that. I may not be the skilled swordsman or jouster he is, but I see a lady...”

“I'm not going to listen to this.” Brienne tried to shove him aside, but Danyal didn't move and kept blocking the way to the curtain.

From the corner of his eye, Thoros saw that she was glancing to Beric's sword and he quickly moved between Brienne and the weapon. “The feast and the dance have been moved to the Great Hall,” he tried to calm down the situation. “We shouldn't argue and try to make it there without getting drenched again on the way.” Beric just nodded and lifted his arm to let Thoros help him remove the breastplate, though the distraction hadn't completely eased the tension in the tent.

“You misunderstand,” Danyal firmly turned back to Brienne. “If you think I'm about to flatter you with lies and say you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen you're mistaken.” Brienne skeptically glared up to him, but this time she did not interrupt. “But you are the tallest woman I've ever met,” Danyal continued. “And I probably don't need to tell you how awkward it is to dance with somebody half your size. I meant to say 'I see a lady who won't make me look like a dotard stooped with age when we dance'.”

Now it was Brienne's turn to look around dumbfounded and speechless and took a moment before she found her voice. “I'm a terrible dancer,” she dryly noted. “But I admit I never tried to dance with a man taller than me. Perhaps that makes up for a lack of practice and skill.” She glanced at the muddy laurel, then looked to Beric. “I presume you won't insist on dancing with your queen?”

“I won't,” Beric gave back, not trying to hide the relief in his voice. “However, I do insist that my queen joins me at my table and delights us with tales of tourneys during the feast. After the gaudy play earlier, I don't think I can take any more 'courtly small talk' today.”

Danyal's smile grew into a blithe grin. “I owe you, my lord,” he said, draped his wet cape over his arm and held it up for Brienne. “Come, my lady, we wouldn't want to miss our only chance for a dance that won't break our backs.”

 

“She doesn't mind if he calls her a 'lady'.” Beric still stared to the curtain after Danyal and Brienne had left the tent while Thoros tried to wring out his wet cloak.

Thoros chuckled, draped the damp cloak over Beric and gave him a light hug from behind. “If Danyal really wanted to, he could charm me out of my robes and I'd let him call me a 'lady'.” He laughed, pulled the hood over Beric's head and pushed him toward the curtain. “And now hurry, I wagered three bottles of Dornish Red on Ser Areas to be the first who trips during the dance.”

 


	6. The Storms To Come

“A perfect prelude, wouldn't you say?” Renly looked up from the leather-bound tome when Loras entered the solar. “It couldn't have gone any better, except for the sudden onset of rain, but some gaffe was to be expected in my dear brother's wake.”

Loras let the heavy door fall shut behind him and wandered toward the desk. “Now you even blame him for the bad weather?” He scoffed and reached for the backrest of the armchair, but just moved it out of the way instead of sitting down and leaned over the table. “And why are you still reading this?” he asked after glancing over the open page of the book. “'The History of House Baratheon', I thought all that was behind us.”

“It will never be 'behind us',” Renly firmly gave back. “I am a Baratheon, this is my history, and the way things are going it will also be the history of House Tyrell.” He shoved the tome toward Loras and triumphantly pointed at the pages. “Black of hair, black of hair, black of hair, and it goes on and on, just these three words. My suspicions are true. Ask your sister if you don't believe me. She paid very close attention all week, and whenever somebody mentioned my son's raven hair, Queen Cersei seemed strangely uncomfortable with the notion.” He got up from his chair, walked around the desk and Loras, then hugged him from behind. “Your grandmother was right, we have an opportunity here. And by the time spring blossoms the realms will rally behind us.”

Loras slammed the book shut and turned around to face Renly. “I'll be wed to Satal before winter comes and the rumors about us will be silenced forever. You're free of your brothers except for rare visits, I can escape my father's grasp to Dorne whenever I wish. We will have the life we always wanted. Why can't we just cherish that?”

“You are right.” Renly smiled a roguish smile and put a kiss on Loras' nose. “We're untouchable. But Robert is not. He is a terrible king and the realms deserve better. And I have lived in his shadow long enough.” Loras was about to interrupt, but Renly didn't let him and continued undeterred. “If Robert drinks himself to death out of boredom, who do you want to see on the throne, come summer? Stannis? Do you think he'll make a good king? Brooding in the Hand's chambers, a stranger to his people, and after all these years his wife still has not born him a son. I'm the future of House Baratheon, I'm...”

“Do you even listen to yourself?” Loras wrinkled his nose with irritation and gently shoved Renly a step away. “That's not you, that's my father, my grandmother, my sister speaking. You...”

“I reconciled with Dorne,” Renly cut him off. “I have a son to pass on the name of my house. I have the love of the people. Why shouldn't I have a crown as well?”

“You're a third son, Renly.” Loras watched as Renly took the tome from the desk, put it under his arm and wandered toward the door. “Even if you expose Cersei's children as bastards. Even if the realms believe you and demand a new king. The throne will fall to Stannis.”

“Stannis is no king and he knows it,” Renly replied with a stubborn smile on his lips. “I'll make him my Hand. He'll be grateful for a way to stay in the shadows. That's what he is comfortable with, doing his duty behind closed doors.” He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. “Come. Lord Vaith and your family are waiting and we have so many things to discuss.”

 

Loras followed him out of the solar and toward the staircase, past windows that barely held out the still raging storm. “You can't possibly believe your brothers will just walk away and hand you the crown on a silver platter. They'll contest your claims and you have no way of proving that the children don't have a drop of Baratheon blood in their veins.” He stopped in the middle of the wide landing and watched Renly descent the stairs from the distance. “Who are you going to accuse of being the father? You don't even have a suspect!”

“Does it matter?” Renly stopped halfway down the stairs and turned around to face Loras. “It's not Robert and that's all I need to know. The children are bastards with no right to ever sit on the throne and I won't stand for the disgrace Robert brought to my house.”

“Don't try to tell me this is about honor.” Loras slowly went down the steps until he had caught up with Renly. “This is about vengeance for petty quarrels, about getting even with Robert and nothing else. I love you, you know that, and I hate to see you hurt by his words. But that's all it is, words. Is your pride really worth a new war?” He put his hands on Renly's shoulders and pulled him closer, a desperate plea in his eyes. “Please, reconsider. It's not too late, we don't have to put everything we achieved on the line.”

Renly held his gaze for a long, quiet moment, then reached for Loras' hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “It is too late,” he finally broke the silence. “I sent a raven to Sunspear after the tourney and this morning I received a reply from Prince Doran Martell. Things have been set in motion, there is no turning back.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The wind howled around the battlements of Frostspear Hall, rattled the shutters and bent the fir trees around the castle against the walls. Outside in the courtyard hailstones hit the gravel, summoning countless simultaneous ripples in the puddles and pelting the wagon near the gate. Leiff stood by the window in the hallway connecting the kitchen to the pantry, next to the open door and a stack of sacks and crates. His eyes followed one of the three hooded men loading the wagon as he returned to the pantry, using the narrow space under the parapets as shelter from the downpour on the way.

“That wasn't here before,” Harrion noted when he entered the hallway and inspected the remaining crates on the floor. “Who took it out of the pantry?” He looked up to Leiff after going through the contents of the wooden box, four jugs of wine, bags of spices and several bundles of smoked mutton, wrapped in cloth.

“I did,” Leiff absently gave back, still staring to the yard through the misted up window. “It's a long way to White Harbor. They make the sacrifice for our sake, they should at least have some mulled wine and food for their journey.”

Harrion removed his hood, brushed the rain off his face and joined Leiff by the window. “It's not a 'sacrifice',” he said. “They aren't sickly or old and they aren't leaving because they'd be a burden. They're going south because Lord Stannis said there'll be work.” Leiff didn't react except for a brief nod. “You think I'd let Lynnea go with them if I thought they had plans to live off the land and die in the woods?” Harrion tried again. “She's my sister, I'd sooner chain her up in the dungeon along with that stubborn goat of her husband.” There was still no answer from Leiff and Harrion stepped closer, grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “They'll be fine, you hear me?” He let go of Leiff, pulled up his hood and went to pick up the crate. “Jasko is a carpenter, he won't have trouble finding work in the city. And you know Lord Manderly always pays well.”

Finally, Leiff nodded stronger and looked to the door when another man entered the hallway, picked up the last two sacks and hurried back out into the furious weather. “You're right, perhaps I worry too much,” Leiff said. “But knowing they have mutton and mulled wine for the way still makes me feel better.” He paused, picked up the last crate from the floor and stacked it on top of the one Harrion carried. “I'll send Benjen with them,” he then added. “He's never been so far from home and the least I can do is make sure part of the journey will be as pleasant as long journeys can be.”

Harrion thoughtfully regarded Leiff for a moment, balancing the stacked crates under his chin. “I thought you wanted to wait and send him to Oldtown once he turned fourteen. His name day is still four months away. Are you worried he'd join the Watch if he travels with a Wandering Crow?”

“No, that's not it.” Leiff stepped away from the window and made a few steps into the hallway when a gust of wind whipped the cold rain through the door. “Benjen always wanted to travel by ship. It makes no difference to him if he boards it at Eastwatch or in White Harbor, and it makes no difference to the Citadel if he's thirteen or fourteen, the fee stays the same. Going with Jasko's group now just means Benjen will see a little more of the southern summer. It's still fairly pleasant in the Reach around this time of the year.”

“But that's not all,” Harrion noted before he stepped out into the rain. “You've been tensed up all week and I noticed the same thing about Lady Kareena. You were both in high spirits after Lord Stark's first visit, now it seems he took the good mood with him when he departed after his second stay.”

“I think he left the high spirits at Karhold,” Leiff gave back. “His party was taciturn and uneasy during supper, they didn't discuss or make small talk like they did on their first visit. Maybe their dealings with Lord Karstark didn't go the way they expected.” He sighed and went further down the hallway, toward the staircase to the first floor. “Something worried them deeply and that can't be good news for us.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I'm not a child anymore!” Benjen grabbed the bag with his luggage and shouldered his bow. “I don't need Jasko to book passage for me, I can do it myself!”

“You haven't been in a city since you were three,” Leiff countered. “There are distractions on every corner and things are expensive. You'll stay with Jasko and the others, and he'll carry the money until the passage to Oldtown has been paid.” He ignored Benjen's stubborn pout and reached for a rolled up piece of parchment on the shelf. “Maester Faelan has arranged for the fee to be paid. Show this letter in the Citadel, they'll know who you are. And send a raven so I know you made it there safely.”

Benjen took the sealed scroll and stored it in his bag, then stepped out of his chambers onto the long, dimly lit hallway. “Of course I will write,” he said. “I won't be seeing you for a long time.”

 _We won't be seeing each other ever again._ The thought flashed through Leiff's mind, clear as day. Just for a blink of the eye he was back in the swamps of Hag's Mire, smelled the herbs in the witch's hut, heard her voice speak the prediction. He had often discussed the plans for Benjen's future, had heard him speak to Maester Faelan about the Citadel and what the studies of an aspiring maester entailed. But this one detail had always been glossed over, had never felt so cutting and real until now. His brother would be gone forever once the wagon had carried him beyond the horizon, to a new life far away in the South.

When Leiff woke up from the brief trance, he saw Benjen had walked down the hallway and waited by the flight of winding stairs at the end. “Don't forget to send letters to Dayana as well,” he said, his voice huskier than he wanted, and closed the door of Benjen's chamber before following him to the stairs.

“She wouldn't care if I did.” Benjen laughed on the way down, not noticing his brother's pensive expression. “Unless my letters could somehow give her insights into the mind of Ser Kallain's squire. He's all she ever wrote about before father's death.” He jumped down the last three steps at once and crossed the entrance hall, then pushed open the large gate to the yard.

“I'm sure she cares about how we are doing,” Leiff gave back. “And I'm glad she adjusted well to life in the Vale. She's almost twelve, I'm not surprised she started noticing boys. If her interest in this squire was a reason for concern, I'm sure Lord Doric would let me know and do something about it.”

Benjen shrugged and made his way toward the wagon, walking under the parapet to not get soaked by the rain. “I suppose it's not concerning, she could do worse than catching the eye of a future knight of the Vale,” he said. “It's just not very interesting reading about it. I don't care if he gave her a flower on a tourney, what color it was, how it smelled, that he complimented her hair.” Leiff's reprimanding glare made him chuckle and he stopped by the wagon when they reached the gate. “Fine, I promise to write her,” Benjen added. “Maybe I'll send her some flowers from the Reach, so she can give one back to her fair squire.” After pulling the fur-lined hood over his head, Benjen stepped into the rain and threw his bag onto the wagon, then turned around again to face Leiff. “You know, I was jealous when you left home and traveled with Lord Beric and even more when you sent Dayana to live in the Vale. I wanted my own adventures and see distant places.” He smiled and grabbed Leiff, pulling him into a strong hug. “Now it's finally my turn and I can't thank you enough for making it happen!”

Leiff returned the hug and his brother's excitement about the upcoming journey chased away the touch of melancholy for the moment. “Don't get too adventurous out there,” he said, laughing. “It's hard and unpleasant work, Maester Faelan told you about it. You...”

“I know that,” Benjen cut him off and let go. “And it will all be worth it. One day I'll write books, not only read about the adventures of others in them. I might even become famous for my studies! Can you imagine? Maester Benjen, renowned for his knowledge in...” He paused and furrowed his brow in thought. “I'm sure I'll find something to write about before I forge the first link for my chain.”

 _Naval warfare, that's what the witch said you'll write about_ , Leiff thought, but he didn't say it out loud. The witch's vision had been murky about such distant details and in the end, they didn't matter. If this was Benjen's destiny it would take its course without hinting at future endeavors, he'd write the books he was meant to write and that was all Leiff needed to know. “Send me a copy,” he said while helping his brother climb onto the wagon. “I'll read it no matter what it is about.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Beric didn't react when the wind slammed the rookery's door shut with a loud thud, he kept staring down to the courtyard from his spot on the battlements and didn't move. Though the sky was overcast and the wind drove thicker clouds and a promise of rain to the Red Mountains, there was quite a bustle outside the armory and near the stables. Blackhaven's guard captain, Ser Alessandrin Valere, was gathering the men he would take down through the Marches to the Boneway by the gate. Some were already on their horses, others hurriedly stored away supplies in their saddlebags and chatted with men assigned to the second party, scheduled to leave later that day.

“If we get caught up in a storm today it will all be on you.” Thoros wandered from the rookery toward Beric and still didn't get a reaction. “Birds of a feather flock together and if you keep brooding like that all those dark clouds will flock to you.” He slouched against the wall next to Beric, mimicking his posture, but watching him instead of glaring down to the yard.

“It's called Stormlands for a reason,” Beric finally answered. “My mood has no effect on the weather. We'll get drenched later either way.” His absent gaze followed Ser Alessandrin on his black stallion as he waved the men carrying Blackhaven's banner closer and rode to the gate. The last stragglers had mounted their horses and fell into formation, leaving the disorder of the second party's preparations behind. “I didn't ask you to come, you offered,” Beric added. “If the prospect of rain bothers you...”

“It doesn't,” Thoros cut him off. “Even if it did, you don't think I'd stay here and twirl my beard while you're out there hunting bandits, do you?” Down below, the gates opened and Ser Alessandrin's party began moving out, yet Beric's eyes didn't follow them. A closer look yielded the answer to Thoros' unspoken question what had disgruntled him if it wasn't the weather. Beric glared at a group of men chatting outside the stables while saddling their horses. “You still haven't put him in his place?” Thoros asked and inched a step closer, as if the topic required some secrecy even up here.

Beric's shrug came from somewhere between resignation and anger and it took a moment before he replied. “He hasn't told Anguy about his pranks. Nor anyone else, for that matter.” He glanced over to Thoros and now there was only helplessness in his eyes. “It seems foolish to bring it up again when it is no longer on his mind. As you said, if I give him the reaction he wants I might only encourage more such misbehavior. I'm his commander, I should be above it and not let it faze me.”

“But it does bother you.” Thoros waited, but no answer came, Beric only quietly nodded and stared to the yard. “Danyal is rather observant. He knows his pranks get to you, whether you say so or not. And you're right, you are his commander. You don't have to put up with this.” He put an arm around Beric's shoulder and joined the east wind in ruffling his hair. “I know you still think you owe him. But even if that debt wasn't long paid, it wouldn't mean you have to give him free reign.”

 

An indifferent hoot from the rookery's window made them both look over and momentarily turn their attention away from the yard. Stormclaw had landed on the sill and now sat there, apparently irritated by its own decision to leave the comfort of the tower. “I know that I have the authority to reprimand him,” Beric said while watching the owl skeptically inspect its all too familiar surroundings. “It would just make me look...” He broke off and thought for a moment, then turned to Thoros. “I don't know.” With a resigned sigh, he leaned his head against Thoros' shoulder and watched the owl's ongoing investigation of the sill. “Last year, when we accompanied Leiff to the Twins after the wedding, Danyal went with my father to settle in at Blackhaven,” Beric said after taking a deep breath. “When I came home he had done so with more ease than I ever expected and nobody had any complaints about him.”

The owl waddled back and forth on the sill, peered down to the yard on one end, turned around, then repeated the process on the other side. While it pondered the unsurprising findings about the sill's dimensions in the middle, Thoros' gaze drifted back to the stables, to Danyal chatting and laughing with two guards. “What's wrong with that?” he then asked. “Weren't you concerned he'd be too brash if you left him unattended so soon? I recall you weren't thrilled with your father's decision to house him right away. You said more than once that you wished there had been more time to make sure he wouldn't fall back into old habits. Sounds like a relief to me that he adjusted so well on his own.”

“It was,” Beric gave back, though his voice lacked enthusiasm. “At first, anyway. My father said I will surely benefit from Danyal's experience. My mother raved about his politeness and the pleasant conversations they had about his travels. The housed knights and guards...” He lazily gestured across the courtyard. “...got along with him so well that it seemed like he had always been one of them. Nobody is bothered by his behavior. On the contrary. They find his jokes hilarious and laugh off his teasing. If anything, it makes him more popular with his peers. I'd look stuck-up and dull if I punished him for petty offenses.” He slouched down deeper and let his arms dangle listlessly over the wall of the battlement. “Maybe I _am_ dull and stuck-up and don't have any humor. Maybe it's my fault that I don't find his pranks funny. Either way, I have to grin and bear it if I don't want to be seen as a bore again.”

Thoros shook his head, stood up straight and stepped behind Beric. “You're not a bore and you know that.” He grabbed Beric around the waist and pulled him away from the wall, encountering no more resistance than one could expect from a wet sack of flour. “But it's not up to the guards if he crosses a line, that's your decision as his commander. There isn't a leader in the world who only makes popular choices.”

Beric made no move to escape Thoros' grasp and robbed of his line of sight to the yard, he resigned to watching the owl on the sill instead of Danyal. “He crossed the line when he stole my clothes,” he said and Thoros felt him cringe at the recollection. “I have never been so mortified in my life. If you hadn't stopped me and appealed to reason, I would have killed him right then and there. Not only did he embarrass me in front of a lady. He also didn't consider the potential reach of his actions at all. Someone could have seen me when I snuck back to the tavern, someone who doesn't take kindly to naked strangers and that someone could have been armed. You could have been anywhere in the tavern, far from the window where you wouldn't have heard me.” His hands grasped Thoros' wrists and held them in place, and Beric's voice betrayed how upset he still was. “It could have been someone else at the table, someone compelled to defend Lady Shyra's honor. The entire common room would have seen me and my reputation would have been tarnished forever. He had no way of knowing she wouldn't gossip about it during the tourney either. She could have told everyone about my lewd intentions and I'd be known as a lecher everywhere in the Stormlands by now. None of that went into Danyal's consideration, his only concern was his own amusement.” He paused and took a deep breath before he continued. “I had it all laid out in my head. When I'd take him aside, how I'd start this conversation. But then...”

“Then what?” Thoros rested his chin on Beric's shoulder and waited until Beric had gathered his thoughts.

“He kept praising me and talked up my recent achievements to anyone who would listen. During the feast, after Danyal danced with Lady Brienne, Renly commended his chivalry and said I had done a marvelous job grooming him into a knight.” Beric sighed with frustration and leaned his head back against Thoros. “Danyal immediately told him how much he values my guidance. He made it seem as if he'd be lost without me and his manners were solely owed to my good influence. It only occurred to me later that it wasn't my doing, that he had always been charming and easy to talk to. But as much as I hate to admit it, the flattery got to me. I played along with it, accepted the compliments and didn't correct him when he framed things as my accomplishments instead of his. Suddenly, the tourney was over, the right moment had passed and I wasn't even sure if I still held a grudge.”

“Danyal made his living as a beguiler, of course he knows how to flatter,” Thoros replied. “But now the effect has worn off and you're obviously still angry with him. Don't let it fester. There'll be another right moment and you know I'll have your back.” With a few uncoordinated flaps Stormclaw crossed the short distance, landed on the wall of the battlement in front of them and stared up at Beric, as if to reaffirm the notion and lend its support as well. “Unless you want me to talk to him,” Thoros added, but Beric immediately shook his head.

“No, I'll have to do this myself,” he said and wriggled himself out of Thoros' lazy embrace. “If I want his genuine respect I can't make you my mouthpiece. That would only look like he has free reign when you're not around.” He returned to the wall and let the owl step onto his forearm, then carried it toward the rookery's door. “I'll lay out the serious consequences his 'harmless' pranks might have had. Hopefully he'll see reason and refrain from such things in the future.”

Thoros followed him and opened the door, then waited for Beric to go inside with the owl. “You know, that may be all it takes,” he pondered. “The one thing Danyal never included in his act when he posed as a knight was someone who put a foot down when he was too reckless. If things got dicey he just took off and let the storm blow over while he hid somewhere else. He can't do that now, not without foregoing the comforts you grant him. Now his knighthood is real, he just didn't consider there'd be real rules as well.”

Beric chuckled when Stormclaw jumped onto the backrest of Maester Jeon's chair, seemingly surprised and thrilled by the rediscovery of the usual spot it had left only a short while ago. “There's one thing you can do that I'd appreciate,” he said. “Danyal has the courtesy to not embarrass me in front of the men, so I shouldn't reprimand him in public either. See that we get some privacy when I take him aside.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Lord Manderly's nothing if not efficient.”

Ser Davos leaned his arms on the harbor wall and let his gaze drift down to the pier. Workers were unloading stacks of timber from a ship sailing under the flag of House Coldwater, others moved handbarrows filled with bricks to a fenced spot by the outer harbor's easternmost tower. The harsh weather that had been ever-present on their journey hadn't reach the city yet and the preparations for the planned constructions were well underway. Stannis didn't react, he kept watching the big-bellied whaling ship docked further away, on the last dock of the outer harbor. Half a dozen of short, stocky men with fur-lined hoods manhandled their cargo with ease, though the barrels looked heavy and bulky. Considering the distance to Ibben, it was unlikely the whalers had been sent by Lord Manderly's contact, the voyage took too long to make it in only three weeks. But even though these men were just common sailors on their regular route, it felt like catching a glimpse of the future to watch them.

“I only hope the Gods favor his plans and hold back the snow and the storms just a little while longer,” Davos tried again. “If the shores of the Bite freeze, even the whalers will have a hard time navigating these waters.”

This time Stannis acknowledged him and slightly nodded. “It's a risk worth taking,” he said. “The North has been stuck in the past for too long. A new source of revenue could change many things for the better. Money to fix the roads, roads to open up the inland and tap into resources yet untouched.” He began wandering along the wall, toward the stone steps leading down to the docks, and Davos followed him, arms crossed behind his back. “I never met a man from Ibben,” Stannis noted, apparently just having realized this fact. “I've seen their ships in the harbor of King's Landing many times, but I never spoke to one of their captains. Not even once.”

“You never had a reason, my lord,” Davos said. “It's the harbor master's responsibility, not yours.” They descended the wide steps, then Stannis stopped and thoughtfully regarded the whalers. They were now standing around their unloaded barrels and unwrapped small bundles, perhaps taking a break to eat after finishing their hard work. “I've met men from Ibben,” Davos continued when Stannis remained silent. “A little strange, but not in a bad way.”

“Better strange than slavers,” Stannis dryly gave back. “That's the one thing I know about them, they condemn slavery. It's enough to make me more comfortable with Lord Manderly's arrangement than the Tyrells' increased trade with Volantis and Lys.” He made a few steps toward the dock, then stopped again and turned back to Ser Davos. “What else can you tell me about these men from Ibben you met?”

“Hardy sailors, heavy drinkers, and what they consider humorous doesn't make any sense to me,” Davos replied. He was about to go on, but he paused when he noticed a hint of a sardonic smile on Stannis' face.

“People say I don't have a sense of humor,” he said, amused by the notion. “Maybe I'll have the laugh of my life when they tell their jokes.” He looked up to the golden and brown sails of the _Cape Wrath_ , anchored on the pier straight ahead of the stairs. “Go ahead, tell the crew we'll be ready for departure shortly. But before we leave, I'll try my luck with them.” Davos' gaze found the whalers and their barrels, and before he could answer Stannis walked toward the group. “Might be the last laugh I'll get before spring,” he said over his shoulder and Davos' heart sank, knowing it was all too true.

 


	7. Enemy Mine

“Feels a bit heavy, almost like leather armor.” Loras stepped back from the mirror and gave himself another appraising look before he turned around to the tailor. “I like that, but take off those orange shapes on the collar.”

Two servants hurried to him and were about to help him out of the coat when Lady Satal's voice held them back. “Wait. Let me see.” The servants stepped back and Loras spun on his heel to present the coat in the making to the ladies by the hearth. “The chest looks very empty,” Satal noted after studying the design. “I agree that the orange looks odd, but there should be something to catch the eye.”

“Three black panthers,” Margaery suggested. “Where your riding coat has three golden roses. And where Renly placed three golden stags instead.”

“I like that.” Renly, sitting in armchair under the window, put his basket of plums away and got up. “It's a perfect blend of the sigils, a strong statement showing off a strong friendship between the Reach and Dorne.”

“Black not only makes a good contrast to the white collar,” Margaery added. “Without the orange it resembles the colors of House Baratheon's banner as well.”

Loras sighed and rolled his eyes, waved the servants closer again and let them take off the coat, then he turned to the tailor. “Change all of it. Make it golden and green and add those three black panthers. I want this coat to scream 'House Tyrell'.” The man nodded, took the coat and left the room with his helpers and as soon as the door fell shut behind them, Loras glared at his sister. “Isn't this marriage meant to silence the rumors once and for all? Certain people are still talking, despite our best efforts. Why would we pour oil into that fire instead of letting it die?”

Margaery shrugged and answered with a blithe smile. “I don't see the harm in it,” she gave back. “Even if somebody finds your coat looks 'too Baratheon', they'd think it's a gesture to honor your sister. Who happens to be the Lady of Storm's End.” Her hand brushed a strand of curly, dark hair out of Satal's face as if to present her. “You're going to marry the realms' most beautiful woman. Any man in attendance will be too taken by envy to draw strange conclusions.”

“And the Dornish guests won't misread it either.” Renly took a goblet of wine from the side table by his chair and drank a few sips. “The grudge they hold is aimed at my brothers. I'm not the one who shrugged off the murder of Princess Elia Martell and they know it.”

“No, you're the one planning to put their blood on the throne.” Loras grabbed his riding coat from the chair and put it on. “And I still think you're getting ahead of yourself. Arianne Martell doesn't have a firstborn daughter. She's not even married yet and I haven't heard about a betrothal either. But it didn't stop you from betrothing your son to 'her daughter'. A girl that may never be born to sit on the throne you may never have.” He closed the last clasp of his coat, went to the door and opened it. “But of course, it's no surprise I can't see the benefit in such grandiose plans. I don't have a mind for politics, what do I know?”

The door fell shut behind him and for a moment it was quiet. “He will come around,” Margaery then broke the silence, looking to Renly. “Let him take out his anger on the yard. Grandmother will talk sense into him later.”

“No.” Renly slammed the empty goblet on the table, crossed the room and finally stopped by the door. “We all know he has a point. It's a gamble, and even though the odds favor us we should heed caution.” He paused and put his hand on the doorknob. “There will be war and it will not be your grandmother riding into battle. It will be us. Your husbands, your brothers, your fathers. I need him to believe in _me,_ not halfheartedly nod along with Lady Olenna. I've tried to act confident and allow no doubt about the success of our plans. It didn't work, so it's time to try something else.”

“And what is that?” Satal skeptically regarded him over the edge of her goblet. “Bat your eyes? Bribe him with another tourney?”

“Speak his language instead of ours,” Renly brusquely gave back, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Renly found Loras on the courtyard, listlessly smashing his sword against a wooden rack outside the barracks. There were three guards standing in the open door, but Loras' grim expression had been a clear enough order to stay away and not offer themselves up as training partners. In their attempt to ignore Loras, their approaching lord came as a welcome distraction and they stood at attention, clearly hoping to be given a reason to be somewhere else. “Leave us,” Renly promptly delivered, making a vague gesture toward them. “Patrol the godswood or go look if the outer gate was stolen.” The three men gratefully nodded and quickly left the barracks in the direction of the godswood, ignoring the sillier option of checking the gate.

“Maybe it's my lack of experience in battle,” Renly began after taking the now empty spot in the door. “But your training might be more effective if you mounted a dummy there instead of attacking the defenseless rack meant to hold it.”

Loras didn't turn around and instead gave the empty rack another lazy strike with his blade. “What's the difference? I'm not going to fight any dummies in the war you're about to unleash either.” He kicked the rack and only glanced over his shoulder when the expected reaction from Renly didn't come. The door was empty now and so Loras returned to his slow battle against the wooden foe in front of him. Two languid bashes later he heard Renly's delayed answer.

“You're right, you won't be fighting racks or dummies.”

Loras rolled his eyes, but he turned around and saw Renly had stepped out of the barracks, holding a sword and a round shield painted in House Baratheon's colors. “This is what you'll fight. Baratheons. My brothers and their bannermen.”

For a moment Loras just stared at him in disbelief, then he let out an incredulous laughter and lowered his sword. “I'm not going to fight you,” he said, wandering toward Renly and sparing the rack further punishment. “I'm angry, but not so much that I would kill you and we both know that's how a fight between us would end.”

“I have no intentions of dying.” Despite the firm words, Renly made a step toward Loras and raised his weapon. “But we need to clear the air between us. I've tried it my way, sitting in armchairs and talking about grand plans for an uncertain future.” His sword clanked against Loras' still lowered blade. “And what did it get me? Your grandmother's enthusiastic approval, a tentative agreement with Sunspear, your father's unbridled excitement and new friends in the Free Cities? It all means nothing if I don't have your support from here on.” A sudden stronger swing struck the sword out of Loras' hand and it landed a step away from him in the rubble. “So now I'll try it your way,” Renly declared. “Fighting is your way of relaxing, of clearing your head. No charades, no games, no what ifs, just blunt words and crossed blades to vent your anger.” He laughed when Loras just shot a skeptical glance to his sword. “I brought a shield for a reason,” Renly added. “To spare you the frustration of having to go easy on me.”

“I hope you didn't get that from the crate by the hearth.” Loras finally made a move toward his weapon. “I just heard the guards say the armorer still hasn't picked up the things they sorted out because they're in need of repair.” He grabbed the sword, then quickly swirled around to hit Renly's with it. “By the looks of it, that's where your sword came from. But maybe you chose it so the blunt words wouldn't feel too alone.”

Renly playfully pouted and shot a quick glance at his sword. “And here I was thinking my choice of weapon would prove the peaceful intentions...” he began, but didn't get further when Loras' blade hit the shield.

“Peaceful intentions?” Loras scoffed and got into position, apparently seeing no need to find a shield of his own. “You're about to declare war against the crown. Pointing a blunt blade at me doesn't change the fact that you're willing to shed the blood of your brothers.”

“I'm not 'about' to do anything,” Renly gave back, just barely evading another swing of the sword. “What we discussed in recent weeks was the groundwork for the future. There is still much to do and we are in no position to rush into open conflict any time soon. We are slowly garnering the support we need to ensure victory, but it will take a good while before we are there. All we did during summer now has to bear fruit. We bide our time and wait for the right moment. And it's unlikely to come before the long winter is over.”

Loras parried the next blow with ease, but didn't bother launching an attack of his own. “Aye, we must 'grow strong' first, don't we?” He let out a sardonic laugh and simply stepped aside when Renly swung his weapon once more. “What do you expect will happen in winter? You think the lords of the Stormlands will become so bored in their castles that they fancy the thought of a new king just to get some excitement?”

Renly paused and lowered his sword. “Of course not,” he sharply replied. “If you hadn't walked out during dinner with Lord Vaith you would know that.” He sighed when Loras just quietly glared at him, then took a deep breath and gave a real explanation. “I expect they will ponder who fed them through the winter, who had the foresight and the connections their current king lacks. I'm the one who negotiated lower prices for their supplies from the Reach. I'm the one who eased tensions with Dorne, and that's where the luxuries that become scarce during winter will be shipped to from the Free Cities.” His sword finally connected with Loras', but the strike was instantly countered, leaving a long scratch across Renly's shield. “Everyone fears the longest winter in decades,” Renly continued, undeterred. “Only fools would dismiss the dangers it brings. But the lords of the Stormlands aren't fools, my brother is an exception. They will turn to those they can rely on and realize that Robert is not the hand that feeds the realms.”

Now Loras paused for a moment and thought about what he had heard. “You got my grandmother to accept lower prices from the Stormlands and Dorne?” he asked, undecidedly raising his sword without aiming it at anything in particular. “And the lords of the Reach follow suit without question?”

“Not quite.” Renly's sword clanked against Loras' without any force, only teasing him to start another attack. “The prices have been adjusted to prevent notable losses. They increased for the realms we can't sway to our side. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, they are too far away and won't turn to me either way. Not as long as Robert's 'true brother' rules the North, not with Jon Arryn serving as Hand and House Tully's close ties to him and Lord Stark.” This time he parried when Loras aimed for the shield and shoved the blade away. “There were no changes for the Crownlands or Westerlands, of course, it would draw too much attention. I suppose it might work out in our favor in the end. The Ironborn raids will increase the colder it gets and I expect them to target Lannisport and nearby harbors. Perhaps individual houses from the western coast will seek safer trade on land routes and come to us. Then we can negotiate other arrangements without giving the Lannisters cause for suspicion.”

“Now that sounds like something grandmother would do.” Loras lowered his sword, raised his chin and walked straight toward the tip of Renly's weapon. “That's how it has always been with my kin. Deeds only count if the right people can see them. Win tourneys, but stay nearby where the right lords will be impressed. Make a show of charity, but time it well and wait for large gatherings of nobles who'll admire the wealth you so freely give to the poor.” Dragging the sword through the rubble, Loras came closer, unfazed by Renly holding his threatening stance. “What does the North, the Riverlands or the Vale have that we could want? Nothing! So let them starve for the sin of living far away!” He stopped when the tip of Renly's sword touched his chest, but his gaze made clear he wasn't yielding, he demanded an answer.

“You know I'd feed every poor soul myself if I could,” Renly gave back. “But that's not how it works. It makes no difference how the supplies will be distributed. There's simply not enough for ten years of winter, even with the imports from Essos. Of course this is not a perfect solution, but we must pick our battles. Feeding our own people first is the best approach. I don't like it either, and I'd rather not see it play out again in the future.” He removed the sword from Loras' chest and struck the blunt tip into the rubble between them. “Rebellions happen because people want change. When Robert rose up against the Mad King people had hope for a better future, yet they unknowingly put the embodiment of stagnation on the throne. Nothing will change under Robert's rule, not now and not ever. I've been on the Small Council, I'm well aware of the realms' issues and they'll only get worse.” He made a step back and spread out his arms, as if to show the true extend of those problems. “Robert will never change. There will always be people starving as long as he sits on the throne, wastes resources on lavish diversions and keeps his eyes closed to the needs of the realms.”

For a long moment it was quiet and Loras appraisingly regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I believe you,” he then broke the silence. “I believe that you're doing this for the people and the future of the realms. And I apologize for the hasty assumption that it was all about petty revenge. I should have listened to what you had to say sooner, and my anger wouldn't have gotten the better of me.”

“And I apologize for letting that grudge fester.” Renly kicked the blunt sword aside and put his hands on Loras' shoulders. “I should have explained my reasons sooner instead of pretending I had all the answers and didn't care what you thought.”

“You should have indeed.” Loras laughed and stuck his sword into the ground, then put his arms around Renly and pulled him closer. “I'll fight for you when the time comes. You have my support, though I won't promise that I'll sit through your meetings with Lord Vaith and my grandmother from now on.” Renly was about to reply, but Loras silenced him with a kiss. “There's just one thing you haven't told me yet,” he then said. “Does Prince Doran know there'll be Dornish blood on the throne no matter who Ghyslain will marry one day?”

“No, of course not!” Renly pulled back and regarded Loras with reproach and irritation. “Nobody knows, not even your father.” He paused and held a hand out to confirm his suspicion, a light drizzle fell and the wind had picked up. “Lord Vaith and your grandmother know, obviously,” Renly relented, plucked Loras' sword out of the rubble and nodded toward the open door of the barracks.

“I'm the first one to admit that my father is not the sharpest blade on the rack,” Loras began when he followed Renly into the barracks. “But do you really think he didn't catch on? He's aware that my betrothal is a concession to Margaery, that she suggested it so her lover would have a husband who won't touch her. It doesn't take much to conclude you won't touch Margaery either.”

Renly held the sword out, Loras took it and put it back in the sheath, then sat down on the long table, close to the hearth. “He knows that he knows more than others.” Renly smiled a secret smile and went behind Loras' chair. “Doesn't mean what he knows is the truth, but it makes him think he has all the facts and he keeps them to himself.”

“You told him a different 'truth' then?” Loras concluded, uncertainly glancing up to Renly over his shoulder.

“A delicate one at that.” Renly chuckled and ran his fingers through Loras' hair. “Your grandmother told him Margaery confided in her. That we tried to stage a little scandal with a conception prior to the wedding. Not enough to cause outrage, just to get people talking and divert their attention away from less welcome rumors.” He let go of Loras' curls and bent down to hug him from behind, then whispered into his ear with feigned concern. “But no matter what they tried, it didn't bear fruit. The poor girl thinks it's her fault, that something is wrong with her womb and she'll never be blessed with the joy of being a mother.” He snickered and kissed Loras' ear before he continued, now mimicking the stern voice of Olenna. “Horseshit, I say, but the girl just won't listen. I'll take her along when I present Loras to Lord Vaith. The estate is not far from the Greenblood and the Orphans sell remedies for every ailment under the sun on the banks. Whatever malady Margaery believes to be stricken with, we'll find a cure there and she'll be with child in no time.”

Loras turned around, trying to put on a reproachful expression, but failed to hold back a chuckle. “Don't you ever feel bad about such shameless lies?” he asked. “Blaming my sister for not magically falling pregnant in your absence from her chambers? Feigning outrage because your brother's heir is a bastard while trying to win the throne for your own?”

Renly took a deep breath, but he, too, couldn't hide his amusement. “First,” he began with an air of importance and walked around the chair to face Loras. “It was your grandmother's idea. She only told me what 'delicate secret' she revealed to your father after the fact.” After brushing some curly strands out of Loras' face, he leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead. “And second, there's a difference between Robert's bastards and my son. Even if the children were trueborn he wouldn't love them. They are a convenience to keep up appearances and pacify a woman he didn't want for a wife either way. He doesn't care that Stannis and I share his blood, the only brother Robert loves is Eddard Stark.” He paused and quietly held Loras' gaze for a moment. “And he's right. Blood doesn't matter in the end. Love, respect and loyalty, that's what is truly important, what lets us grow strong. I love my son, _our_ son, and I see all that in him. Ghyslain is the legacy we share, my name, your blood, a symbol of our houses growing together. The queen's bastards only show how far she and Robert have drifted apart.”

The drizzle outside had turned into a downpour and the guards hurried when they crossed the courtyard on their way back to the barracks. Loras quickly got up when he saw them come closer and went to the door. “I never thought about it that way,” he said, absently watching the guards rush through a puddle. “When I look at him I only wonder why people claim to see all these things resembling you or my brothers in him. I don't see any of it, he's just a babe. And babes don't look like anyone in particular, one looks like the next to me, if I'm honest.”

“People see the resemblance because we tell them it's there.” Renly followed him to the door and sighed at the heavier rain with annoyance. “Repeat it often enough and it will become true over time.” He pulled Loras aside to let the guards enter and nonchalantly changed the tone to a casual conversation. “We just noticed some of these swords need replacing,” he turned to the guards, brushing the rain off their armor in front of the hearth. “With the season of storms at our gates I want the garrison to be in best order. Is there anything else I need to bring to the castellan's attention?”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Don't you think it's misleading to call this a smithy?” Danyal sauntered toward Beric, meeting him halfway between the small building and the road. “I may not be especially devout, but I recognize a sept when I see one.”

“It is dedicated to the Smith,” Beric explained. “It was built near the first mines and workers still come here to pray for protection before they descend into the tunnels. They've always used this nickname and everyone knows what they mean.” He went past Danyal to the horses, opened a saddlebag and stored a small bag Septon Wyeford had given him away in it. “It would cause confusion if people called it 'the Sept' all of a sudden. They'd probably think there were plans for a new one in a different location.” A gust of wind almost took off his hood when he mounted his horse and held out for Anguy's group on the trail leading to the silver mine further back in the mountains. The clouds hadn't burst yet, but they darkened the sky and made the late afternoon feel like a late, stormy evening.

“Maybe I should try that.” Danyal snickered and jumped onto the back of his horse. “Call it a sept, just to see how long it takes until people catch on.”

“Try it if you must,” Beric gave back with an annoyed sigh. “Though I doubt you'll change a habit that has been around for hundreds of years. It's so ingrained in peoples' heads that even books about the region adopted the name.” In the distance the hazy outlines of riders appeared and Beric gestured to the guards by the sept's gate to return to their horses. “All you'd do is deprive us of the fun that comes from confusing travelers by calling it 'Smithy',” he turned back to Danyal. “Maester Jeon once told me he thought my great-grandparents had been wed by a blacksmith when he first arrived at Blackhaven. The records listed the Smithy as the location of the ceremony and the septon at the time had a name very similar to that of the smith. Took Maester Jeon a few weeks to figure it out because people were too amused by his bewilderment at 'strange Marcher traditions' to resolve the misunderstanding.”

Now Danyal looked thoughtful as if this information required careful consideration. “That's a very good point,” he finally said. “Perhaps I'll start calling the smithy a 'sept' instead and bring it full circle.”

“Nothing in the cavern,” Anguy interrupted, stopping his horse a few steps away from the group. He nodded to Thoros who had returned with him and now held a ragged blanket and a dented kettle up for Beric to see. “There was a camp by the lake inside, but it was too small to have housed a larger group,” Anguy elaborated on their findings. “Probably a lone vagrant from the valley who doesn't mean any harm.”

“Leave that with Septon Wyeford.” Beric directed his horse closer to Thoros' and briefly inspected the things he had brought back. “Maybe he knows who it belongs to and can give it back, should the owner really come looking for it.”

Thoros tossed the items to a waiting guard and ordered his horse to follow Anguy and Beric to the road and the rest of their party. “You think there's any hope we'll make it to our next stop without getting soaked?” he asked and looked up to the black clouds, completely obscuring the sky. The wind had picked up since they had left Blackhaven, but so far there had only been a light drizzle and the worst of the weather was yet to come.

“If we hurry and luck is on our side we might stand a chance,” Anguy replied instead of Beric. “But there's an old mine, close enough to make it there before nightfall. Should the storm get too bad we can make camp there and...”

“It's a detour though,” Beric interjected. “And we'd only waste our time, people avoid the mine because of the supposed 'hauntings'. Patrols have gone there year by year after the mine was abandoned and nobody has ever found any bandits. No ghosts either, but the rumors serve as an effective deterrent for unwanted guests.”

Anguy shrugged and pulled the reins. “Maybe the prospect of a harsh winter has made the bandits less superstitious,” he said. “Can't hurt to take a look, if only to get spared from the downpour. That's worth the detour, and it's not a long one either. We just take a turn by the Hunter's Pass and...”

“We'd have to make the journey twice to get back to the road.” Beric maneuvered his horse to the lead position as they left the Smithy behind and followed the southern road through the Red Mountains. “We'll just pick up the pace, then we'll reach the cave by nightfall. It's the last location on our list for today. If we make camp there we won't have to catch up tomorrow.”

“I prefer Anguy's suggestion.” Danyal brought his horse next to Beric's. “Why forgo the chance to sleep sheltered from the storm? We'll cover more ground tomorrow when we're all well-rested and not soaked to the bone.” There were approving nods and murmurs from the guards and archers, and as if to strengthen Danyal's position, a cold gust of wind blew the first drops of a drizzle into their faces.

“Fine, if the rain gets worse by the time we reach the Hunter's Pass we'll head for the mine.” Beric shook the reins, goading the horse into going faster, though it was easy to tell by his voice that he didn't like the idea at all.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Determination had not been enough to outrun the weather. Long before they reached the small forest of the Hunter's Pass, the black clouds burst under the crashing of thunder. The storm left no room for interpretation of Beric's earlier order and when the road ahead split, the men dashed down the narrow trail leading to the old mine without confirming that this counted as 'worse'. Lightning flashed, thunder echoed between the ridges and valleys and the road in the pass had turned into one giant, black puddle.

“You don't believe in those tales about hauntings, do you?” Thoros led his horse into the rickety remains of the storehouse outside the mine after Beric. The horses of the guards and archers were already inside, some shook the rain out of their coats, others stood still with pricked up ears. Their riders had already entered the mine and judging by the flickering from the tunnel they had lit a fire for the night.

“Of course not,” Beric gave back, shot Thoros an irritated glance and opened the saddlebags of his horse to rummage through their contents. “People tell them to scare children and discourage them for playing in a place as dangerous as this. Every settlement makes up their own version, but nobody has ever seen a 'ghost' with their own eyes.”

“Then why were you so apprehensive about coming here?” Thoros went through his own saddlebags in search of a blanket and some wine. “It's not far from the road, Anguy was right when he said it's not a long detour.” He pulled the blanket out and kept feeling around for the wine under other supplies.

“I don't like tunnels.” Beric crammed the belongings he needed into a smaller bag and went to the wooden gate of the storehouse. “They feel like the walls are closing in, like they get smaller the longer I'm in them.”

Thoros found his wine, put it on the blanket and closed the saddlebag. “And the cave would have been better?” He picked up his things and joined Beric by the gate. “It's not very different from a mine if you ask me.”

“It is very different,” Beric corrected him. “Caves are natural. They are _meant_ to be where they are. Tunnels are not, that's just man encroaching on nature. We can't be certain if our structures will hold the weight above them, we're just guessing and taking chances with that. Nature put caves where we're welcome and it's sheer hubris to decide we know better where they belong.” He pulled the dripping wet hood of his cloak back over his head, but waited before he stepped out into the rain. “This mine is abandoned because tunnels collapsed, and men died and were injured when it happened,” he pointedly added. “The way tunnels make me feel is a reminder that men are not supposed to be there. That's why it feels like there's not enough air and the walls move toward me. Because the space we occupy was meant to be solid rock.”

He was about to leave the storehouse, but Thoros grabbed his arm and held him back. “We can stay here with the horses,” he quickly suggested. “Perhaps they'll be less spooked by the weather if we keep them company and...”

Beric regarded him for a moment, then shot a dismissive glance to the ceiling. Several holes gaped and revealed the upper floor, the roof that had once been there was long gone. Though the remains held back the worst of the rain, the cold storm blew in through the many gaps unhindered. It didn't seem to bother the horses. Most had trotted to the more sheltered corners, only two of them curiously inspected a knocked over barrel by the broken stairs. “They don't look spooked to me,” Beric noted. “The men would only think I'm a coward and believe the ghost stories if I stayed here.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “I don't like it, but I'll stay in the mine. It's only one night. Somehow I'll manage.”


	8. Nightfall

With their hoods pulled down and their cloaks held tightly closed, they ran through the pouring rain, across the mine's forecourt, and entered the tunnel. The flickering shine of a fire danced against the wall, emanating from a short hallway to their left. Voices and rattling came from the large room at its end where the men were still busy setting up camp. Beric stopped in the beam of light and stared down the main tunnel to where it branched off in two directions. One was barred with barrels and debris, blocking the way deeper into the mines, the other path took a turn and the dim shine of the fire wasn't enough to make out where it led.

“Don't think about it.” Thoros gently pushed Beric into the short hallway. “Think about how close we are to exit. The open sky will be just around the corner.” Beric nodded, and though he didn't look too convinced he began moving, stepping over the rubble and carefully shoving larger rocks aside. “If the room starts feeling too narrow you'll be outside in no time,” Thoros quietly added. “Nobody will give it any thought if you go take a leak or look after the horses. We...”

“You're right,” Beric firmly cut him off when they reached the doorway and he noticed two of the guards were in earshot. “We need a torch or two here, so nobody trips up on the debris in the dark.” One of the guards stopped what he was doing, confirmed the order with a quick nod and called for someone to bring the bag with the torches. While he inspected the old holders on the walls of the hallway, Thoros followed Beric into the room and surveyed their camp for the night.

 

There were three fires burning and illuminating the large chamber, and the two smaller ones on the opposite side of the entrance accounted for the frantic flickering that had been visible from outside. Both pits were surrounded by men who had draped their wet cloaks over swords and branches and slowly waved them above the flames in hopes of drying the clothes. Behind them a broken door barely hung in its hinges and revealed the opening to a narrow hallway, perhaps leading to rooms used for storage and down into the mine's maze of tunnels. The passage was blocked by a knee-high pile of wet cloaks though and the group tasked with drying them had their work cut out for the night.

The third and largest fire crackled in the room's center. There were marks on the floor that suggested a hearth had once stood there, sooth-stained bricks that formed a vague circle and scratches around it from moving chairs back and forth. The sparse furniture that had been left behind when the mine was abandoned stood stacked up against the long wall to the right. Anguy and some of the guards were trying to dislodge a heavy table and free the benches underneath from the weight while Danyal carried broken chairs from an adjacent chamber toward the pile of wood between the two smaller fires.

 

“This might not be so bad after all.” Thoros stepped behind Beric to help him out of his wet cloak and pointedly looked to the large fire. Teryn, one of the guards, sat on some planks and was skinning rabbits. Next to him a selection of vegetables were laid out, bundles of carrots, a bag of green sprouts and several onions. “It may have taken a year, but he learned some lessons from Leiff,” Thoros said and took off his own cloak. “Or your Gods had mercy on you and improved his cooking without his knowledge.”

“The Gods had nothing to do with it,” Beric gave back with a chuckle. “He fancies the new cook my father took into service and picked up some tricks to impress her. I don't know about her, but it sure works on me.” He stepped over some rubble and followed Thoros to the fire. “And my father,” he added, now more hushed and somewhat frustrated. “We both want him in our personal guard, but it has not yet been decided which of us will get his way.” He waited for Thoros to hand the cloaks to a guard, then they turned around and slowly went back to the large fire. “Obviously he should be in my guard since my father rarely strays far from Blackhaven,” Beric noted with an air of importance. “And Teryn has been traveling with me in the past, there's no good reason to break with old habits. But no, my father just won't back down and insists we settle the matter like the warriors we are.”

Thoros paused and shot him an incredulous glance from the side. “Your father challenged you to a fight over this?”

“What?” Beric looked puzzled when he turned to face Thoros, then realized how serious his choice of words had made it sound. “No, not a sword fight,” he quickly clarified the misunderstanding. “We'll settle it on the cyvasse board once we both have the time.”

By now several blankets, furs and woven mats were laid out around the large fire pit and a bench had also found its way there. Beric dropped his bag on the ground and sat down next to it, then opened it and searched through the contents. Thoros took a seat on the bench behind him and peeked over Beric's shoulder, but since he couldn't see much, he watched Teryn cut the vegetables instead. “That sounds more like your father,” he said. “And I hope you'll defeat him, not least because your prize would benefit me as well.”

“So do I,” Beric gave back and pulled a small bundle out of his bag. “Frankly, my victory is not that certain. My father stepped up his game in my absence. He won a small tournament at Stonehelm and is playing a game against Lady Fowler at Farwatch Keep. They send a scroll back and forth where they mark their moves and the pieces' new positions, then arrange it on their boards according to it.” He unwrapped the bundle and revealed three smaller bags, the ones he had been given earlier by Septon Wyeford. “I should practice with Jalabhar Xho when we're in King's Landing. Maybe he can teach me some new strategies to counter my father's secret training.” A second bench was set down on the other side of the fire and Beric turned to the guards who had carried it before they went back to get another. “Yanic, find a pot to make mulled...” he began, then the sudden crashing of thunder rolled through the tunnels, the bags dropped on his lap and he turned white as a ghost.

“Let me see that.” Thoros quickly leaned over Beric and reached for the bags, pulling him closer in the process, hoping to calm him down. He could feel Beric's heart racing, his breath going faster, though he sat there motionless like a statue and stared to the hallway ahead. “Smells just like the northern blend,” Thoros noted when he had found and sniffed the bags, then he tossed them to Yanic without any warning. “I just hope we get the mix right, I can't recall how much sugar the crows added.” Beric shrugged slightly, though it didn't seem to be a reaction to what Thoros had said, more an attempt to regain his composure and wake himself up from this rigid state.

“I remember.” Yanic picked up the bag he hadn't caught and put all three down on the bench. “And I think someone saw kettles and pots in a storage room.” He turned around and looked to the stack of tables and benches, then spotted Anguy by the door to the small chamber. “Are there pots in there?” he called out, nodding to the doorway. “We need another one, Lord Beric brought spices to make mulled wine!”

For a short moment the room was silent, then cheers and excited murmurs broke out and the seats around the fire pit began to fill. But the distraction wasn't enough for Beric, it seemed. “I forgot the sugar. It's still in the saddlebag, I'll get it,” he mumbled, trying to get up from his blanket.

“No, you didn't.” Thoros tightened the hug and held Beric down. “It's just thunder, no need to worry,” he whispered. “Take a deep breath, trust me, there's enough air in here.” Beric hastily nodded, but he didn't answer. He stared at the pot Anguy had brought to Yanic, watched it being filled with red wine and not really listened to the incipient debate about how much spices should be added.

It took a while until Beric relaxed and still a bit longer until the cautious glances to the ceiling and the hallway ceased, but eventually the distractions around him gained the upper hand. The men further back by the small fires had draped the remaining cloaks over pieces of broken chairs and empty barrels, and abandoned their attempts to dry them by hand. They had joined the rest of men and gathered around the large fire, chatted and sniffed the scent of the simmering wine while Teryn handed out bowls of his stew.

“If there are bandits hiding out somewhere in the mountains, they were stupid to pass up on this place.” Anguy stirred the mulled wine after Yanic had poured some more sugar into the pot. “It's rather cozy in here and there's only one entrance. Much easier to defend than the cave past the Hunter's Pass and it also makes for better shelter from the wind.”

“Also makes it easier to trap people in here,” Yanic noted. “If I was leading a band of bandits I'd make sure there was an escape route in my hideout. The cave has a narrow tunnel that opens to the mountains, away from the road. Might be a bit colder, but it also means you stand a chance of getting away when the patrols from Blackhaven come knocking.”

Anguy shrugged, took a cup and scooped some wine from the pot to try it. “You could always hide further down in the tunnels,” he said. “This mine is old, the maze leads deep into the mountain. It would take a patrol weeks to search through all nooks and crannies and you could probably evade them by circling back to tunnels they already checked.”

Beric glowered at him and inched back, closer to Thoros, but his discomfort with the subject went unnoticed as Anguy approvingly nodded at his empty cup. It was the signal everyone had been waiting for, the mulled wine was ready and Anguy immediately found himself surrounded by hands holding out cups.

“You didn't account for the hauntings though,” Danyal picked up the topic once he had his wine. “On one hand, if it's not true, it could be an advantage. The patrols looking for you might dismiss telltale noises as ghosts and your bandits can slip by them unnoticed.” He blew the steam away from his cup before taking a sip, then leaned back against the bench. “But if it's true and there are apparitions, they might not be friendly to either side and slay any invader to bolster their numbers with more lost souls.” His gaze wandered over the crackling fire and rested on Beric. “Maybe there's a different kind of infestation in those tunnels,” Danyal continued in an ominous tone. “Vengeful ghosts of bandits that were murdered down there in all those years the patrols didn't bother checking the mine. We should take a look in the deeper tunnels, just to make sure nothing will chase us...”

“There are no ghosts.” Beric slammed his cup on the floor, splattering wine left and right, and got up from the blanket. “But since you're so keen on leaving the comforts of our shelter...” He stepped over the fire and made an inviting gesture toward the hallway. “We should look after the horses before we retire. Just to make sure the thunder didn't chase them away.”

Danyal took another sip from the wine and stretched out his legs. “I'm sure they're smart enough to stay where they are and not run back out into the rain,” he began, but he didn't get further.

“That was an order.” Beric glared down at him and the serious tone of his voice silenced the chatter around the fire. All eyes rested on Danyal and the conversations only slowly resumed when he made a move to get up.

“We should start preparing for the night,” Thoros suggested when Danyal went to the hallway and Beric followed him there with a few steps distance between them. By the doorway he briefly stopped and looked over his shoulder, waiting for quiet confirmation that the men would be kept busy. Thoros subtly nodded and got up from the bench. “We'll need to assign shifts for the night watch and make sure we have enough wood for the fires.” He looked around once Beric had left and ambled toward the stacked up furniture by the wall. “And perhaps we can bar the broken door back there, keep the rats in the tunnels. The scent of our food might have caught their attention.”

 

Danyal waited in the middle of the entrance and stared at the pouring rain outside the mine. “I still don't think it's necessary,” he said without turning around. “The gate is closed, I don't see how the horses would have...”

“The horses are fine,” Beric cut him off. “Your recent reckless behavior is not.”

Surprised, Danyal turned around and made a few steps back into the tunnel. “Reckless behavior?” he echoed, evidently puzzled. “You said it yourself, there are no ghosts. What's the harm in exploring the tunnels a little? It's not like we could accidentally break something down there, it's all broken and useless already and...”

“Exactly,” Beric interrupted again. “The mine was abandoned for a reason. It's not safe down there, and roaming about with no clue where you're going won't make it better. What if you knock over the wrong moldy column and the tunnel collapses? What if you get stuck in a room because the door won't open again? What if somebody gets lost and can't find his way back?” He didn't wait for an answer and slowly wandered closer to Danyal. “Then we'll spend days trying to recover people who went down there for no good reason instead of completing the mission we were tasked with. Not to mention the injuries we'd risk by crawling around in the dark, through unstable tunnels filled with broken equipment.”

Danyal stopped and thoughtfully looked down to the fork of the tunnel, the barricade and the turn it took into the dark. “If you put it like that it sounds foolish indeed,” he admitted after a short silence. “I just thought it would make for a good story and didn't consider that it might not have a happy ending.”

“And that's the problem with you.” Beric stopped as well and crossed his arms. “You don't think things through and don't consider consequences such 'harmless' adventures or pranks might have.”

“Pranks?” Danyal's brow furrowed in thought. “You're not still angry about me hiding your clothes before Lord Renly's tourney, are you?”

“Actually, I am.” The words lingered in the tunnel, accompanied by the constant rushing of rain. “My reputation could have been ruined. I could have been accused of indecent behavior toward a lady. Someone in that tavern could have decided to defend her honor and I could have found myself faced with a duel for no fault of my own,” Beric continued after taking a deep breath. “Where would that leave you? A knight with a dubious past, serving a disgraced lord? Or a dead one, for that matter.”

“You ought to have more faith in your swordsmanship,” Danyal countered. “There was nobody in that tavern who'd pose a real threat to you.”

“I'm flattered, but that doesn't answer my question.” A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the tunnel, but the following thunder was too distant to startle Beric this time. “You think my father would still want you around if your actions led to his son's fall from grace? That the knights and guards wouldn't chase you out of the Stormlands if you sullied the good reputation of the house they serve?” He paused and waited, but got no answer, Danyal just stood there and looked stumped. “It doesn't matter if I would have won a duel or not. You'd have bitten the hands that feed either way.”

“When I arrived at Blackhaven I did what I do best,” Danyal began after a brief silence. “I adapted, became what people wanted me to be. The seasoned warrior for your father, the gallant Valeman when I spoke to your mother, the traveler with exciting tales and jokes for the guards. Gaining trust is easy if you give people something familiar and live up to their expectations.” He leaned against the wall and let his gaze wander to the exit, the pouring rain and the rage of the sky. “And now I realize I misread you.” His eyes jumped back to Beric as if the epiphany had just presented itself to him in this moment. “I heard about Anguy's pranks, I'm aware of Thoros' renown. I thought that's what you wanted me to be, loud-mouthed, reckless, a bit of a madman.” He made an uncertain step toward Beric when there was no answer. “It never occurred to me that it might bother you. And I didn't realize I took things too far until you laid it all out like that. Frankly, I now feel a bit stupid for gambling with the good life you afford me.”

“I suppose it's part my fault.” Beric regarded a piece of debris on the ground with much more interest than it warranted. “I should have said something and not just let you carry on as before.”

Danyal's gaze followed Beric's to the broken brick, then wandered back up, trying and failing to meet his eye. “Why didn't you?”

Beric slightly shrugged and kept trying to unravel the brick's mysteries in the dark. “Nobody else took offense at your behavior,” he said. “I thought I just hadn't done enough to earn your respect.” He looked up, finally locking gazes. “And maybe I haven't. Maybe I haven't been what you expected me to be either.”

“And what would that be?” Danyal let out an incredulous laughter. “A pompous dipshit who lives in a world that revolves around his oh so great house? Whose wealth and noble blood means he can do no wrong?” He wandered closer to Beric and put an arm around his shoulder. “You have my respect, I just chose the wrong way of showing it. But a fault confessed is half redressed. I apologize. And I mean it.”

“Apology accepted.” Beric breathed out in relief, but just one heartbeat later the rumbling of thunder caught him off guard. “We should look after the horses then,” he quickly muttered, barely resisting the urge to run toward the exit.

Danyal's grasp tightened as he glanced down to Beric. “At least let me get our cloaks before we go out into the rain.” Beric cautiously looked up, unsure if Danyal was serious about going along with this admittedly stupid suggestion. “Or we could trust the closed gate, go back to the fire and and toast to our new beginning. If there's some mulled wine left.” Slowly, Beric nodded, still struggling to regain his composure, and let Danyal direct him toward the hallway leading back to the camp.

 

Teryn's cooking and the mulled wine had raised the spirits and despite the late hour there was now quite a bustle in the camp. Some men had picked up the challenge of drying the cloaks again, others sat around the fire and discussed their watch shifts for the night. Yet another group had joined Thoros in disassembling the furniture stacks further. The door in the back had already been barred, and what the men were doing with the remaining benches and the heavy table was not obvious. However, they seemed to know what they were doing and worked on their constructions with purpose, and Beric was not in a mindset to inquire. He let Danyal lead him back to his spot by the fire, took the warm cup Yanic offered and poured down the lukewarm wine in one go. Maybe a certain level of intoxication would help banish the anxiety the too narrow walls, the too low ceiling, and the too sticky air conjured up.

“I take it the horses are fine?” Thoros stopped behind Beric and Danyal, picked up a blanket from the floor and added it to his now dry cloak, hanging over his arm.

“Some were a bit spooked by the thunder,” Danyal replied, subtly glancing at Beric. “But it didn't take much coaxing to calm their troubled minds.” Beric nodded along, though he paid more attention to his empty cup under Yanic's nose than to what Danyal said.

“That was the last of the mulled wine, my lord,” Yanic informed him, tilting the pot to show it was empty. Beric's brow immediately furrowed, then he turned around and looked up to Thoros, a silent demand for more wine in his eyes.

Thoros shook his head and pointed to empty pot by the fire. “That was my wine we mixed with your spices,” he said. “I have some more provisions, but they're in the saddlebags we left in the storehouse and I'd rather leave them for tomorrow.” He brushed off the dirt from the blanket, then dropped his cloak over Beric, covering his head. “The men are tired and we have a long journey ahead of us. Rest will do more good than another round of wine.”

Danyal got up and looked around in the room, then just sat down again and leaned back against the bench. “I'll join the first shift,” he said with a sigh. “Looks like the good spots are all taken. Here's hope I can snatch one when the second shift takes over.”

After removing the cloak and regaining sight, Beric hesitantly nodded, got up and followed Thoros away from the fire. “I really can't talk you into giving up some of your provisions?” he quietly asked.

“You really can't,” Thoros gave back. “But I have something better than intoxication to help you sleep in here.” He stopped in a corner, in front of a construction made from the heavy table and several layers of blankets and furs. “Feels like a tent,” he added and patted the tabletop where the weight of his sword held the makeshift curtains in place. “You'll forget where you are and think you're sleeping under the sky.” Beric skeptically inspected the construction, though the corner was dimly lit and he couldn't see much when he peered inside. “The only thing you have to worry about will be envy,” Thoros continued. “Three men tried to bribe me into sharing my snug chambers with them.”

“I can't blame them for trying,” Beric noted moments later while fumbling in the dark space, trying to weight down the blankets with his sword from inside. “This does feel like a tent, and a comfortable one at that.” He paused and left the sword where it was when a faint clink from Thoros' side caught his attention, followed by the telltale gulps of someone drinking from a bottle. “In the saddlebags in the storehouse?” he asked with playful reproach.

“Be quiet with that, it's not enough to share with the first shift and the rest is really in the storehouse.” Thoros passed the bottle to Beric, then draped the cloak serving as blanket over them. “Sometimes I think I spoil you too much, Lord Sunshine.”

“No, you don't,” came a prompt and amused answer. “It's just right, don't worry about it.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The evening sun set slowly beyond King's Landing, casting the Red Keep's long shadow out over the sea. Though the _Cape Wrath_ was by far not the only ship that had docked in the past hour, the harbor was as orderly as it as was busy. Only few people loitered about near the warehouses, and no matter where Stannis looked he didn't see a single sailor or dock worker standing still. On the decks of ships captains barked orders, overlooked crews unloading their cargo or taking in new supplies. Sacks, barrels and crates were being carried to warehouses or pulled through the River Gate on wheelbarrows and carts.

The one notable disturbance in the harbor's tidy bustle took place one dock away from the _Cape Wrath_. A Pentoshi captain was engaged in a strident disagreement with three harbor guards, apparently unwilling to let them inspect something they demanded to see. Stannis couldn't make out what exactly they argued about when he disembarked, as the conversation was much louder than coherent.

“Quite a difference,” Ser Davos noted when they had the cobbled ground of the harbor under their feet and were out of earshot of the screaming duel between the guards and the Pentoshi. “There was sheer chaos here when we departed for White Harbor. Looks like the City Guard finally regained control.”

“They gave other parts of the city over to the chaos instead,” Stannis put a damper on this cautious enthusiasm. “But I suppose it still counts as a victory. When Robert brought Lord Tarly's name forward I had my doubts he'd make a good master of laws. I thought Robert only made the suggestion out of spite, as a slight to Lord Tyrell, not because it had actual merit.” He nodded to the Dull Anchor, a tavern frequented by sailors, that sat nestled between two brick warehouses near the gate. “But it appears my skepticism was unwarranted and Tarly was a decent choice after all. A bit rough around the edges perhaps, though that's hardly surprising. All things considered, I'd say he's the best master of laws we've had in years.”

Davos snickered at the matter-of-fact remark as he followed Stannis to the Dull Anchor's door. “What are we doing here?” he then asked, surprised and somewhat puzzled when he realized Stannis was about to enter the tavern. Not only was it a rare occurrence that he chose to mingle with citizens of the city, he had also picked an odd time for straying from usual habits. Stannis didn't answer, he purposefully crossed the common room and headed for a table by a window. Davos sighed to himself, his lord moved in mysterious ways, but he followed and tried again to get an explanation. “Isn't the Lord Hand awaiting the report from White Harbor?” His hand rested on the backrest of a chair, not pulling it off to sit down, ready to leave the moment Stannis changed his mind.

“Jon can wait,” Stannis promptly replied and sat down, going against Davos' expectations. “I need a clear head. Won't find that in the Red Keep tonight.” He watched a cart pass by outside the window, as if he had all the time in the world, then waved the tavern wench over from her spot by the counter. “What's good here?” he turned back to Davos.

Still a bit stumped, Davos looked around in the room, pulled his chair off and sat down across from his lord. “The steamed turbot,” he halfheartedly recommended. It was the only dish he had recognized on the fly, on the plate of a sea captain who was engaged in a lively discussion with two other men on the next table. “Or perhaps there's...” he began, but Stannis stopped him with a lazy wave of his hand when the wench arrived.

“We'll have the turbot and something to wash it down with,” he placed their order, apparently not too picky about the wine. Once the wench had left, he thoughtfully regarded Davos for a moment. “How bad does it get in the city?” he then asked. “You've lived through winters in King's Landing. What is it like?” Davos was about to answer, but Stannis was not finished. “What is it _really_ like, I mean,” he clarified. “Not the tale about the Mad King's madness being the root of all problems, and how everything will be better due to a new king. I've heard enough of that 'truth' in the council chambers in the past weeks, and it is not helpful to make a decision.”

“It gets ugly,” Davos plainly replied. “It's no king's fault. Crown or not, no man is beyond the cold reach of winter. People will starve and die, not just in the city. A winter as harsh and long as predicted will be felt everywhere in the realms.” He nodded to the wench when she put down two mugs of wine and hurried back to the kitchen. “Right now, hopes are as high as they'll get. To you, to the council, it looks like a disarray of panic and crime, but that's not the spirit out in the streets.” Stannis sipped from his wine, but his expression remained thoughtful and didn't give away if he approved of the wench's choice of drink. “Before the first snow there are ways to keep busy, and I'm not only talking about ways that lead to Lord Tarly's dungeons. There's more work than usual. Honest work, for those who are able and willing,” Davos continued. “After the last harvest things will start looking less hopeful. People return to their homes in the city from the work they found outside the walls. That's when they start feeling helpless. When there's nothing more you can do, when you're waiting for the coming of winter and hope you've done enough to keep your family fed.”

Stannis absently stared to the window and waited for the wench to set down their plates with steamed fish. “So it will get worse,” he plainly noted once the wench had left the table. “Pycelle and Varys insist this kind of tumult occurs before every change of seasons, and people will calm down within a few weeks or months. They speak from experience, they've been on the council in past winters, but they seem to underestimate the challenges we're facing.” He cut into the turbot, releasing a small cloud of steam under his knife, and tried the buttered greens while it dissipated.

“They've been on the council,” Davos repeated over the edge of his mug. “And in their cozy chambers, never far from the well-stocked pantries of the Red Keep.” He drank and set the mug down on the table, then released a cloud from his fish as well. “I reckon the truth looks quite different from up there.”


	9. Daybreak

“Ned used to tell me about these legends, we greatly enjoyed such tales when we were boys. In winter, when we moved down from the Eyrie to the valley, we pretended the Gates of the Moon were the great Northern Wall and we were sworn brothers of the Night's Watch. Sometimes one would play the Last Hero and the other would chase him through the snow in the forest on the foot of the Giant's Lance. Other times, we'd take on the roles of the first Lord Commander and the leader of the Children and pretend we were fighting the Battle for the Dawn. I always made Ned play the latter, he was younger and smaller and the crown we crafted from twigs and roots suited him better.”

The king's laughter echoed between the walls of the Great Hall, bustling with servants and in an apparent state of redecoration. “Then we grew older and let go of children's stories, but I have fond memories of the Northern tales.” Robert gestured to a group of servants to set down a long bench near a column before he turned back to his brother and continued in a more surly tone. “You know what the problem is, Stannis? It's not that you came to me to talk about these things though you can clearly see that I'm busy. It's that you're not Ned, that you don't know how to tell stories. Your dreariness takes away everything that makes them exciting.” He waved to his squire who immediately scurried over and handed the king a horn filled with wine. “Hone your skills with the council, maybe they appreciate your ragged yarn.” Robert took a swig and glared at Stannis over the edge of the horn as he drank, silently urging him to keep his mouth shut.

Though Stannis was about to disobey the unspoken order, he didn't get far. Just as he was about to speak, an arrow, decorated with bright red feathers, buzzed through the air far above his head and hit a target suspended on the nearest column. Startled, Stannis swirled around, searching the hidden attacker, then breathed out in relief when he found him on the gallery, still holding his bow. “The hall is too small, it's hardly a challenge,” Jalabhar Xho shouted to Robert. “Perhaps we should move the target over the gate instead and have the archers positioned on the steps of the dais.”

Robert shoved the empty horn in the hands of his squire and appraisingly looked from the throne to the gate, then to Stannis. “Why are you still here?” he barked. “You said you agree with Ned's suggestion, as does the Watch's Lord Commander. It's a Northern concern. Let them handle it, they know what they're doing.” Without waiting for a reply, he made a few steps toward the gallery and looked up to Jalabhar Xho. “Try it out in my absence. Once I return from Lord Rosby's harvest festival I'll make a final decision.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The king's words still lingered in Stannis' mind when he ascended the stairs to the Small Council chamber. It wasn't personal, Stannis knew that, it never was with his brother. He brought important matters before the king as a courtesy, the king brushed him off and left decisions to the Hand and his council. And maybe this time Robert was right, maybe this was a Northern concern, maybe Stannis needed to hear that he saw a mountain where there was only an anthill. Not that it would give tourneys in the Great Hall precedence over preparations for winter, but perhaps there really were more tangible matters that required his attention. As long as the council agreed to Lord Stark's proposal, something would be done. The crown addressed the issue and didn't turn a blind eye. It was entirely possible that the peculiar nature of this situation made it seem more urgent than it truly was.

 

“That would be a terrible idea.” Lord Baelish crossed his arms, underlining the verbal opposition to a proposal Stannis had not heard. Speaking to Robert, amidst the bustle in the Great Hall and surrounded by feathered distractions from the Summer Islands, had taken longer than Stannis expected and the council session had already begun. He quietly took his seat and skimmed over the notes, a long list on the scroll awaiting him on the table. “There are always 'odd occurrences' in the Free Cities,” Baelish continued. “Limiting imports and imposing stricter controls on ships won't change that, it will only put us at a disadvantage when...”

“...fewer sailors frequent your brothels,” Varys cut him off. “That was what you wanted to say, wasn't it? It may be a disadvantage for you, but unless you put your own coins toward the safety of the city I frankly don't see how...”

“This is completely besides the point,” Baelish seized back the word. “To you, for obvious reasons, brothels might be nothing but a mysterious, depraved cesspool of sin. But the reality is that they are businesses that pay taxes, and taxes fill the crown's treasury in the end. Of course I wouldn't be thrilled about the lost revenue, but no more than any other entrepreneur in the city. Scare off trade partners in the Free Cities, for petty reasons beyond their control, and you'll find the shelves of stores you frequent just as empty as the beds of my brothels.”

“The harbor looked in best order last night.” Stannis looked up from the notes, no wiser than before about the details of the dispute. “To me it appears Lord Tarly has things under control. What are those 'odd occurrences' you think warrant more caution?”

Lord Tarly acknowledged the remark with a brief nod, but he remained quiet and let Varys answer the question. “My little birds report the strangest things from the Free Cities,” he began, his voice an ominous, concerned singsong. “In Braavos an old woman, blind all her life, was suddenly able to see and now her gaze can grant sight to the blind eyes of others. A little boy in Pentos, no older than eight, heals broken, even crippled limbs, by singing a song to the afflicted. And in Qohor...”

“Your precious little birds waste their time spying on healers?” Stannis interrupted, making no secret of his irritation. “How does any of it pertain to the Targaryens?”

“Not at all, my lord,” Varys gave back, seemingly surprised by the question. “We have heard nothing from them in several months. The girl was wed to a horse lord, as you know, but it appears the khalasar returned to the plains and Viserys did not go with them. He was seen on the markets of Pentos alone, but he did nothing of note, unless you're interested in his disputes with merchants.”

“What Lord Varys is trying to say is that his spies must be bored.” Lord Baelish nonchalantly sipped from his cup and leaned back in the chair. “Now he's worried about the 'dark magic' sneaking into our city. On the ships that bring the supplies we so desperately need for the coming winter.” He pushed a scroll closer to Stannis, elegantly unrolling it in the process. “I've read it. Every single item on this list of 'unpredictable dangers'. Every single one of them speaks of miracle healings. There's nobody summoning demons or spreading curses.”

“It is not the nature, it's the concentration of these events,” Varys tried again, but this time he was cut off by Jon Arryn.

“While it is worth of note that such 'miracles' have become more frequent, I agree with Lord Baelish that they are no cause for concern,” he began, then paused when Grand Maester Pycelle gestured for his attention.

“Lord Hand, I must agree with Lord Varys,” the grand maester muttered into his beard. “Of course, we shouldn't close the ports, but I advise caution when dealing with the Free Cities. Stricter controls, perhaps directing ships to Duskendale instead of King's Landing...”

“No such things have occurred on our soil as of yet and our ports have had no restrictions ever since this development began in Essos.” Lord Arryn took the parchment on top of his stack and put it aside, face down, then reached for his ale. “If there is something going on, the Free Cities don't care to export it to our shores. What they do export are supplies, as Lord Baelish said, and we need those, now more than ever. The increased prices the Reach imposed on certain regions concern me much more, and in that regard your 'little birds' are strangely quiet.” He drank, set down the cup and looked to Varys, waiting for an explanation that didn't come.

“It is indeed cause for concern,” he said and cautiously glanced to Lord Tarly. “I have not heard of bad harvests, yet my conclusion of there being a shortage of food doesn't hold up. There have been no complaints from southern houses, though wagons arrive slowly in the mountainous regions of the Westerlands.” Again, he shot a quick glance to Lord Tarly before he finished his report to the Hand. “However, this is owed to the weather. Muddy roads, bad storms forcing the wagons to move at a snail's pace. When they eventually arrive at their destinations there is nothing wrong with the goods and the quantities paid for are delivered in full.”

“There's no shortage, we know that.” Stannis abruptly turned around, now facing Lord Tarly. “Over the past year the Tyrells increased trade with the Free Cities and Dorne. Even with a bad harvest there should be more food than usual. The harsh weather hardly came as a surprise and the excuses for the delays are more than flimsy. I can't shake the feeling that there's more going on than meets the eye, but feelings won't solve it, we need facts. Get closer to the Tyrells, find out what Varys' spies missed.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Tarly barked, stumped and baffled. “I haven't been a welcome guest at Highgarden for several years.”

“You stayed away because of an old grudge, my lord,” Varys calmly corrected, earning a grim glance for the too true remark. “Show some initiative!” he added, undeterred by the glower. “Have your son squire at Highgarden or betroth him to one of the ladies-in-waiting that swarm around the Queen of Thorns wherever she goes.”

“You have two daughters as well, don't you?” Lord Baelish interjected.

“Three,” Lord Tarly plainly gave back.

“Splendid!” Baelish got up from the council table in a swift, almost cheerful move. “Betroth one of them to a Tyrell knight instead. Plant one of your roses in their garden and we'll see what's really happening behind those thorny walls.” He wandered to a sideboard, selected a carafe of red wine and returned to the table. “I'm sure Lord Renly knows exactly what the Tyrells are doing. I see no reason why we shouldn't try to get facts with the same approach.”

 

The joking remark didn't succeed in raising spirits. The council session dragged on and on, with no end in sight. The lords of the Vale were moving to their winter seats in the valley, all ravens were to be directed there from now on. Ironborn raids plagued the western coastline, some impertinent raiders dared to take their ships as far down as Faircastle and Kayce.

This hardly came as a surprise to Stannis. The Iron Islands were barren, their inhabitants knew winter was coming and felt the fear of hunger and cold as much as anyone else. Lord Stark had mentioned increased sightings of raiders on the shores of Cape Kraken as well, but he was not too concerned since the Ironborn had not tried to venture into Blazewater Bay. Only a few settlements sat on the shores of the Flint Cliffs, beyond them was nothing but inhospitable tundra. The remote seat of House Flint, the only castle in these harsh lands, was easily a week's ride from the coast. There was nothing tempting the Ironborn to take their raids inland. Lord Stark suspected they merely poached in the coastal waters and if they ever set foot on land it was owed to a storm.

The Fair Isle and the western coast was an entirely different matter. Several castles and settlements were found in this region, and the harbor of Lannisport made this area one of the busiest waterways in the Sunset Sea.

“Let the harbor master of Lannisport know he can expect the requested ships in three to four weeks,” Stannis said, still skimming the scroll with House Lannister's seal. “I'll send the _Godsgrace_ to help secure the harbor, and four smaller, more nimble vessels to aid the patrols.”

“It appears that would be all for today.” Grand Maester Pycelle laboriously arose from his chair, huffing and puffing while his chain loudly clanked. Varys reached for his stack of scrolls as well, and as if Lord Baelish had only been waiting for it, he leaned forward and slapped Varys' fingers away.

“But we have not yet heard Lord Stannis' report from the North.” Baelish smirked as Varys sighed and remained seated, and Grand Maester Pycelle sat down again with a tormented groan. “The Lord Hand mentioned the pact Lord Manderly struck with the Shadow Council of Ibben before your arrival,” he turned back to Stannis, still triumphantly glancing to Varys from the corner of his eye. “A wise move, I'm glad the crown supports Lord Manderly's efforts. But I'm curious, what became of Lord Stark's report regarding the events north of the Wall?”

It was obvious he only brought up the North to pester Varys with the prolonged session, but Stannis ignored the shameless lie and cleared his throat. At least someone had broached the subject, though it was not out of actual concern. He began with a brief summary of his departure from White Harbor, the pitiful state of the Northern roads and Lord Stark's hesitation to begin repairs of the Kingsroad before the first snow.

 

The listeners' interest was visibly fading once the report reached the subject of increased wildling attacks south of the Gift, and it turned into utter bewilderment when Stannis recounted what he had learned at Castle Black. Ser Barristan displayed the unsung benefits of his years as a Kingsguard, kept a straight face and briefly nodded every once in a while. Listening to the king's ramblings for so long had hardened him in this regard, and no matter how outlandish things sounded he didn't let on. Lord Tarly tried to follow his example of knightly countenance, but though he remained stony-faced the doubt showed in his eyes. As always, the spider's true thoughts were mysterious, with the exception of his obvious impatience for the session to end and allow him to return to more pressing matters. Lord Baelish had feigned interest in the beginning, but even his facade crackled and his well of questions ran dry. Grand Maester Pycelle made no secret of his thoughts, but if his dismissive attitude stemmed from conviction or senile bemusement was hard to tell.

“It appears to me Lord Stark's proposal is indeed our best course of action.” Pycelle coughed into his fist, then pointedly gathered his scrolls and notes. “If we are in agreement I'll send the raven to Winterfell right away.” The emphasis on the last words made clear the session was closed as far as he was concerned. He immediately received the confirmation for his suggestion, firm nods from the men gathered around the table, before all eyes wandered to the Lord Hand with a silent plea to end the misery of the session.

“Send the raven,” Stannis turned to Pycelle as he got up from his chair. “Tell Lord Stark to proceed as we discussed and confer with Lord Commander Mormont as needed.” He waited for the other men to leave the chamber after Jon Arryn had formally closed the session, then he grabbed his scrolls and went to the door. Grand Maester Pycelle, not as quick on his feet as his fellow council members, was the last man leaving the table, except for the Hand who took final notes. “And I want you to compile everything the Citadel knows about the Northern legends,” Stannis stopped Pycelle's determined shuffle before the old man reached the door. “Even the children's books catching dust in the archives. Have it all delivered to my chambers by the end of the week.”

The door fell shut behind Pycelle and Stannis was alone in the chamber with the Hand. “I'm used to being dismissed by my brother,” he said, wandering back to the table. “And it stopped bothering me years ago. Why? Because I knew the council would listen and take care of matters. I could rely on them to do what needs to be done.”

Lord Arryn put his notes aside and looked over to Stannis. “They gave their approval. Isn't that what we wanted? Ned will do what needs to be done. We can rely on him and on Lord Commander Mormont.” He gathered his scrolls and got up when Stannis said nothing and stopped halfway on his way through the room. “You know they are right,” the Hand added, his tone now firmer, more reassuring. “This knowledge must not leave the Wall or this room. If people think the winter will bring more dangers than hunger and cold, what will happen?” He came closer and answered his own question before Stannis got the chance. “They will flock to castles and cities that struggle to feed their own people. The shelter they seek will turn into their graves and it won't be demons of ice, it will be hunger and illness taking their lives. We cannot risk wide-spread panic, you said so yourself.”

“We are not 'the people',” Stannis surly noted. “We should be vigilant, not brush aside potential dangers to the realms.” He scoffed and nodded to the table behind them. “I haven't seen any vigilance here today.”

“The Wall has kept the realms safe for thousands of years. Re-manning it under the guise of fending off wildlings is our best course of action.” Lord Arryn crossed the short distance to the door, pushed it open and waited for Stannis to follow. “We've got our work cut out here in the city. If Ned needs anything more he will let us know.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The door to the Hand's chambers slammed shut, and moments later a stack of dusty tomes was plunked onto the desk with equal force. The leather-bound books looked ancient and tattered, the spines cocked, the pages brittle and yellowed, and the corners had fallen victim to the teeth of rats. Jon Arryn regarded the stack, then his gaze wandered up and rested on the visitor who had delivered the books, waiting for an explanation.

“This is what Pycelle gave me.” Stannis' demeanor was calm, but his voice betrayed burgeoning anger. “And a crate of scrolls buried under more dust than the deserts of Dorne. Some fell apart when I touched them and the ones that did not were just copies of texts found in those shoddy books.” He placed another tome, smaller and thinner in size than the others, on top of the stack, mocking great care as if he was handling a famed, fragile treasure. “And this is what Maester Pylos sent me from Dragonstone,” he solemnly added. “It belongs to my daughter. A gift from Lord Farring for her seventh name day.”

The Hand picked up the book and appraisingly studied the cover before returning it to the top of the stack and skimming over the titles, barely readable on the battered backs. “Tales for children, fables and legends,” he noted. “I would have thought the Citadel's archives to be better stocked.”

“Perhaps they are.” Stannis crossed his arms and glared to the window. “Pycelle inquired if I was also interested in tales about snarks and grumkins, and recommended Maester Ollo's _Written Accounts of Ironborn Folklore_ for further reading.” He abruptly turned around, now facing Jon Arryn. “I know what I've seen north of the Wall, I'm not going crazy. It wasn't a 'starved wildling frozen stiff in his rags'.” The anger faded from his voice, instead it sounded uncertain and haunted when he continued. “Which is the absurd explanation Pycelle brought forward earlier today.” He opened the book, his daughter's name day gift, _Dragons, Merfolk and Monsters_ , and absently flipped through the pages. “What if Lord Stark is wrong? What if the North doesn't remember either?”

“The legends are more alive in the North,” Jon Arryn replied and passed Stannis a scroll across the books on the table. “And the Vale still considers taking the black as a honorable tradition, more so than other realms. I expected a certain resistance from the Council, and I know the matter concerns you greatly. Therefore I instructed the lords of the Vale to promote the idea of sending men to the Wall.”

Stannis skimmed over the scroll, a response from Lord Royce to the Hand's letter, then put it down next to the books. “Did you tell them why we need to re-man the abandoned castles?”

Jon Arryn shook his head and moved the scroll back into the small crate he had taken it from. “Old tales make no good incentive for men of honor, even if the legends are true. But the people of the Vale are no strangers to savage attacks from the mountain clans. I relayed to them that there are more wildlings than a harsh winter can account for, that the Watch fears there might be a new 'king' beyond the Wall. This is something the Vale can relate to, a tangible threat, and it is true.” He slid the dusty tomes toward Stannis and placed an empty scroll in front of himself. “You can rest assured that the Vale will aid Ned's efforts in the North, whether the threat comes from wildlings or something else.”

Now more at ease, Stannis nodded and picked up the stack. “It is a relief,” he said, turning to leave the Hand's chambers. “Though I'd rest better if we had more than children's books to understand what's happening north of the Wall. Perhaps I'll write to the maesters in Oldtown myself, request they take a closer look at their archives. This can't be all, there must be something Pycelle missed. Or omitted.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“That was a whole lot of trouble for three poachers,” Anguy noted as the guards took their captives to the dungeon under Blackhaven's Shattered Tower. “And as dumb as they are, we could probably have summoned them with a polite letter and saved ourselves the ride through the rain. If any of them could read, that is.”

Danyal handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy and turned back to Anguy. “But they were in the cave, just as Beric suspected,” he said with an air of importance. “We could have saved ourselves at least a day or two if he we had listened to him.”

“Right, we could have had the downpour of two days within one single night,” Anguy gave back, sneering at Danyal. “If only we had listened! We would have been soaked to the bone much faster!” Across the yard the tower's gate fell shut behind the guards and the poachers, and Anguy pulled the damp hood off his head before he entered the Great Hall. “Those dimwits didn't even try to use the escape route and get away through the mountains. We had all the time in the world to pick them up in the cave.”

Danyal followed him into the Great Hall where the rest of their party had already gathered around the long tables, enjoying the hearth's warmth and a good cup of wine while waiting for the feast to begin. “Aye, but we didn't know what we would find,” Danyal said. “Our delay might have given them the time to...”

“But it didn't,” Anguy cut him off and stepped over the bench to sit down across from Thoros and Beric. “We found them and they'll be locked up in the dungeon. Besides, without the delay we'd have been caught in another downpour. We would have been out in the open, far from any shelter, instead of sitting it out in the watch tower over night. As it was we only came into a light drizzle all morning. I take that over making it home soaked wet a day sooner any time.”

“Still, I think we should have listened to Beric.” Danyal wrinkled his nose and sat down next to Anguy. “We can't just overrule orders because the weather displeases us. It's disrespectful to our commander.”

Beric glared at him over the edge of his cup and leaned closer to Thoros. “I don't miss the pranks, but I'm beginning to doubt this is much better,” he quietly said. “By now he must have lectured every single man in the party about not showing me enough respect.”

“Give it a few days,” Thoros whispered back. “Or enlighten him on the concept of 'middle ground'. We'll have plenty of time for that conversation when we ride for King's Landing.”

 


	10. Winter's Truth

Stannis closed his daughter's book, put it on the bedside table and blew out the candle, but darkness didn't claim his chambers in the Red Keep. When he closed his eyes he stared into the blinding white flurry of snow, dancing like the ashes of a thousand cold hearths in the sky. He felt the biting grasp of the Northern winter, heard the frozen mud and ice of Castle Black's yard crunch under his feet.

“We've been sending out more scouting parties than usual,” Lord Commander Mormont's voice echoed in Stannis' mind. “The wildlings have grown more brazen and fierce in their attempts at crossing the Wall, and they come in greater numbers than we could explain.” He stopped in the middle of the yard and vaguely nodded to the Wall towering behind Castle Black's structures. “We found no less than five tunnels they tried to carve near Oakenshield in the past three months alone.”

“This is unusual, even with the prospect of a harsh winter?” Davos asked. “All of the South fears starvation, I imagine it only gets worse beyond the Wall.”

“These people do not fear the cold the way we do,” Mormont gave back. “There are no seasons out there, perpetual winter is all they know. Which is precisely why their recent behavior strikes me as unusual. In the past we've dealt with war bands and raiders out to pillage settlements for supplies. Now we see larger groups, but they are not only composed of warriors. They bring children and people unable to fight due to illness or age. These are not raiders, they have no intentions of taking loot back to their dwellings. This eagerness of leaving their way of life behind is a recent change in their behavior, and now we know the reason for it.” Mormont opened the door to his chambers and let his guests enter, then turned to his steward, Lord Stark's bastard as Stannis recalled. “Tell the First Ranger to join us,” Mormont said. “And send for Maester Aemon as well. Then prepare the chambers in the King's Tower for our guests.”

Once his steward had left Mormont closed the door and waited for his visitors to take their seats on the table near the large hearth. “You'll be the closest to a king that tower has seen in a hundred years,” he said, glancing to Stannis. “I'm both surprised and relieved the crown has sent you here.”

“I came of my own volition,” Stannis said, trying to free his hands of the black leather gloves that felt as if they had merged with his frozen fingers. “Reports of 'white shadows' and 'ancient enemies waking from their slumber' are not the kind of thing I normally deal with. There were matters I had to attend to in White Harbor, and since your claims come from more credible sources than usual I extended my stay in the North to look into it.”

“The expansion of the harbor,” Lord Stark explained. “Lord Manderly brokered an agreement with Ibben and needs to accommodate more ships.”

The Lord Commander absently nodded and finally sat down with his guests. “We could use more ships as well,” he said more to himself. “Eastwatch's galleys are barely enough to handle the smugglers, now they also have to deal with wildlings trying to get past the Wall.” He sighed and leaned back, then his eyes jumped to the door as it opened. “But you're not here to learn about the reports from Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower, the sightings of fires in the Gorge or the boats crossing the Bay of Seals in the night.” He waved the First Ranger over and waited for him to take a seat. “Those are only symptoms of a more worrying illness that has befallen the lands north of the Wall. You are here to learn what transpired in the Skirling Pass.”

 

The First Ranger looked like he was the older of the two brother when he sat down next to Lord Stark. Life was harsh at the Wall, but it was not only his long absence from the warm springs of Winterfell that gave the impression. There was also a gloom in his blue eyes that Stannis had not seen in a long time. It had been in his own brother's eyes when Robert told him the rebellion had been for nothing, that Lyanna was dead. The years and the wine had watered it down, had drowned the gloom in indifference and resignation, but this look was something Stannis had never forgotten.

“I'll get straight to the point,” Benjen Stark began. “As the Lord Commander probably told you, the odd change in the wildlings' behavior made us suspicious and we feared there might be a new King-beyond-the-Wall. Since we hadn't found any leads in the Haunted Forest we turned to the west, as past kings gathered their forces in the Frostfangs. A party from the Shadow Tower had already found the Giant's Stairs impassable a few weeks before, so I took my men into the Stirling Pass.” He paused when the door open with a loud creak and a fat, red-faced steward led Maester Aemon into the room.

“Wait outside, Tarly,” Mormont said once the maester had reached the chairs. The steward, Lord Tarly's son as Stannis realized in the back of his mind, quickly nodded and left the room while Maester Aemon sat down and greeted the guests. Once the door had fallen shut Mormont nodded to the First Ranger.

“There used to be a few settlements in the valleys,” Benjen Stark continued his recollection. “Nothing more than a few huts huddled together, these people never gave us much trouble in the past. The first few settlements we now found abandoned, and we thought their inhabitants might have made their way to the Gorge. But when we looked closer we found traces of fights. Scattered weapons, most of them broken. Shattered doors that had been barricaded from the inside, and blood on the broken wood as if someone had pulled people out through the holes.”

“I know what you're thinking,” the Lord Commander interjected, addressing Davos and Stannis. “Those savages live in constant strife. Why would it be unusual to find signs of fights in their dwellings?”

“The thought has occurred to me,” Stannis gave back, his eyes still resting on Benjen Stark. “But if that was all you found I wouldn't be sitting be here, so I presume there's more to the story.”

“There is,” the First Ranger confirmed, his voice now more solemn, almost haunted. “Those huts belonged to outcasts of larger clans, it would indeed not be usual if they had been attacked. But raiders don't leave supplies behind, yet none had been taken. We stocked up and ventured further west, deeper into the Frostfangs, looking for an explanation. And we found it.” He exchanged a brief glance with the Lord Commander, then cleared his throat and went on with his tale. “We discovered a camp in a hidden valley. Only one rickety shack, a fire pit and the remains of tents, some kind of outpost set up there by hunters. It was in shambles, a fight had taken place, but unlike before, this time there were bodies. Five, six if you count the half-eaten one, and by the looks of it they had been there for a while.”

“Ice-river clans,” Lord Commander Mormont answered the unspoken question in his guests' eyes. “They eat people. Slaughter men like pigs and roast them over the fire.”

Benjen Stark didn't seem to notice the bewildered look on Stannis' face and just continued when Mormont gave him a nod. “There was also something else in the camp when we approached, though we couldn't quite make it out from the distance. A white shape in the snow, but it was clearly moving. At first we thought it might be a wolf looking for a meal, but when we came closer we realized it stood upright like a man. And it wasn't interested in the arm on the skewer either, it did _something_ with the rest of the cannibalized corpse. We didn't know what to make of it, but the creature had not yet seen us or at least paid us no attention. So we waited and watched and...” He broke off and grabbed the jug in the middle of the table, filled a mug and hastily poured down the ale in one go.

“I'm certain those men in the camp were dead,” he then blurted out, his eyes jumping back and forth between Stannis and his brother. “They weren't resting, they had not recently died. Those corpses had been exposed to the weather for weeks, if not longer. And yet...” Again he broke off and poured himself another ale. “They began moving. When that white creature touched them they rose from the ground and staggered around like drunken sailors.”

Stannis regarded him for a moment, then let his gaze wander across the other men sitting around the table with them. Davos' expression alone displayed the bewilderment Stannis felt, the Northerners looked more resigned than surprised or doubtful. “The dead began moving?” Stannis repeated, half acknowledging he had listened, half asking for confirmation he had heard that right. The First Ranger nodded and emptied his ale, only to immediately refill the mug once more.

“Eight more men have witnessed it,” Mormont answered in his place. “Reliable men, some of our best rangers. “Two perished in the fight that ensued, but six more lived to tell the tale.”

“A fight?” Davos stared at him with incredulous eyes, then looked back to Benjen Stark. “The dead men attacked your party? You...”

“No,” the First Ranger firmly cut him off. Apparently the ale had helped him regain his composure. “We attacked them.”

Lord Stark had quietly listened up to this point, but now he found his voice and the look on his face betrayed that he hadn't yet heard this part of the story. “ _You_ attacked _them_?”

“We had the numbers and the high ground,” his brother explained. “The creature was trapped, we were between it and the path leading down into the valley, and its only allies were shambling corpses. One didn't even have arms, for crying out loud.” He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Looking back, I know how foolish it was, and we paid for our rash actions with the lives of two brothers. But a creature that can bring the dead back to life is a real danger. We couldn't risk not being believed. And we accomplished our goal, we are gathered here because our warning was not dismissed as superstition or crazy talk.”

“What happened during that fight?” Lord Stark carefully regarded his brother. “Did you kill the creature? Or is it still out there?”

“It retreated as soon as we attacked,” Benjen Stark sullenly gave back. “We don't know where it went, there was no other way out of the valley. We didn't get the time to search for it either, as the corpses put up more of a fight than we had expected.” He paused and glowered at his now empty mug, but made no move to refill it. “We burned down the camp along with the corpses. Should the creature come back it would find nothing to raise. All we took was the hides of the tents to secure our captives, everything else in this camp was turned into ashes when we left.”

“Captives?” The word burst out of Stannis and Lord Stark as if they spoke with one voice.

“How could we expect to be believed if we came back empty-handed? We could hardly report that we saw the dead walk without any evidence to back up our claims.” Benjen Stark got up from the chair and put his mug on the table. “We took two of them. The one without arms and another that Jaremy Rykker cut in half during the fight. Didn't kill the cursed thing, but it became considerably easier to wrap it up in thick hides.” He went to the door and waited for the others to follow. “Burned the rest of them, and our second captive's lower half.”

“Are you saying these creatures are here?” Lord Stark got up from his chair, as did Stannis and Davos. “You brought them to Castle Black?”

Lord Commander Mormont helped the maester up and led him to the door, but didn't yet open it or call in the steward. “One perished,” he dryly noted. “But yes, we have the other one in a cage outside the gate.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Why are you keeping it out here?” Lord Stark asked when the group followed the Lord Commander through the gate. “Why don't you lock it up in the dungeons? If it breaks the cage nothing stops it from disappearing into the forest.”

“We tried,” his brother gave back. “It's the reason we only have one of them left.” He held the torch higher to illuminate the trampled trail through the snow better and waited for Maester Aemon, now led by his visibly uncomfortable steward, to catch up. “The one without arms had fallen off the horse a short distance away. He's not very good with balance, as you can imagine, and it wasn't the first time it had happened. Since we could already see the gate, I ordered three men to just tie him behind the horse and drag him the rest of the way. The others went ahead with the one Rykker had cut in half. We carried that one by the arms, so the body hung between two horses. As soon as we entered the gate the struggling ceased, everyone saw how the arms just went limp.”

The group had reached a large cage made of weirwood, covered by the remains of a tent and watched by three guards. “Thoren Smallwood immediately jumped off his horse and removed the hide we had wrapped around our prisoner's head,” the First Ranger continued. “Didn't try to bite him, didn't move, just hung there as limp as the arms. We didn't know why the creature had suddenly lost its animation, but we did know it had happened the moment we entered the tunnel. So I turned my horse around and intercepted the men who had stayed behind, told them to keep the second creature away from the gate.”

“It's the Wall's magic,” Maester Aemon said, his blind eyes gazing into the white distance beyond the wooden cage. “It is stronger than the spell imposed on the dead.”

“Show them, Gundar,” Lord Commander Mormont addressed one of the guards.

The man handed his torch to one of his black brothers and pulled off the hides from the cage, and an inhuman howl immediately emerged from within. The creature had no arms, but the lack of limbs didn't stop it from trying to reach the new arrivals. Stannis and Davos instinctively made a step back, away from the hissing corpse that bashed its head against the bars. It wore furs clotty with old, black blood and tattered clothes, and the many gashes in them revealed wounds that should have been fatal.

“Father, have mercy with us,” Davos muttered, staring at the terrible sight, unable to turn his eyes away.

“The pillaged settlements you found in the pass,” Lord Stark, aghast, but somewhat more composed, turned to his brother. “You believe the white shadow turned the inhabitants into creatures like this? That there are more of them hiding out in the Frostfangs?”

Instead of the First Ranger, Mormont answered. “We believe this happened elsewhere as well,” he said, furtively regarding the caged corpse. “There are abandoned settlements and villages in the Haunted Forest, along the Milkwater and west of the Gorge. It's hard to tell which were truly abandoned, some certainly belonged to wildlings who made their way to the Wall.” He paused and gazed out to the darkening sky in the north-west. “But I have no doubt that the wildlings are fleeing from these creatures.” After another pause he appraisingly regarded Lord Stark and for a moment it was eerily silent, except for the hissing and gargled shrieks from the cage. “Therefore, I decided to grant the more docile groups, Thenns mostly, shelter in certain castles. Rimesgate and Stonedoor, both are in bad condition, but not as bad as the others. The wildlings don't care as long as they are south of the Wall, and perhaps they'll save us some work and rebuild the ruins.”

Lord Stark didn't reply, though all eyes rested on him. He kept watching the creature, now on its knees, trying to dig its teeth into a bar of the cage. “You made the right choice,” he finally said. “Not only for their sake, not only to deprive the white shadow of more dead to raise. Granting them refuge in those castles means they won't roam the North and spread rumors about what's happening beyond the Wall. People fear the coming winter enough. Wide-spread panic would throw the North into more turmoil than we can handle.” His eyes followed Stannis who had began walking around the cage and inspecting the creature from all sides, then he looked back to the Lord Commander. “But if it's the Wall's magic that keeps us safe, sheltering wildlings in two castles won't be enough. We need all castles garrisoned. Every tunnel, every gate, every nook and cranny needs to be guarded.”

“I agree.” Stannis stopped next to the cage, still watching the creature. “But you shouldn't depend solely on wildlings. These people may know what's going on, but as the Lord Commander said, many of them are unable to fight.”

“The North will remember,” Lord Stark firmly gave back. “I'll see that capable men will bolster the Watch's numbers. People won't question an order to that end, they'll understand the necessity in the face of a harsh winter. I don't like keeping my people in the dark, but for now I'll say these are measures to hold off the wildlings.” He grimaced when the corpse in the cage knocked out a tooth on the bar, yet kept trying to bite the wood undeterred. “Once the more ferocious tribes come at us the claim will be true enough. There are clans out there that might be worse than the dead and the Wall's magic will not stop them.”

Stannis nodded and wandered back to the group, then abruptly stopped in front of Mormont. “Allow small bands of warriors in if you have to. Those who travel with old people and children and are likely to stay with their kin to protect them. But not the cannibals, that's where you'll draw the line.” Mormont nodded and Stannis threw a snide glance at the creature. “How many of these things do you think are out there?” he asked after a moment. “Your worst estimate, assuming this white shadow is responsible for every abandoned settlement you discovered so far.”

Mormont thoughtfully shook his head, but he answered. “The lowest estimate is bad enough,” he said. “They'd outnumber the garrisons of Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower combined. However, there are more factors to consider. We know at least some of the villages were abandoned and their inhabitants made it past the Wall, but that doesn't mean the odds are any better.”

“We granted refuge to Thenns,” Benjen Stark took over. “They claim lands in the far northern mountains, several weeks away from the Wall.” He nodded to the cage. “Going by what's left of his clothes, that one was from the Frozen Shore. And those who ate his arm came from the ice rivers even further west of the Frostfangs.” He paused, took a deep breath and looked Stannis dead in the eye. “If there's only one white shadow it covers quite some ground. It's possible, but it strikes me as rather unlikely. There might be more than one such creature out there.”

“The Lands of Always Winter remain widely uncharted,” Mormont added. “We don't know what lies north and north-west of the Frostfangs and even few wildlings ever ventured that far.”

“There is an account of a ranging to Lorn Point, past the ice rivers on the Frozen Shore,” Maester Aemon interjected. “But it is hundreds of years old. So old it speaks of giants and tribes we know went extinct a long time ago.”

Mormont nodded and took up the thread. “Legends say these lands were home to the Others, the white shadows, before they were defeated in the Battle for the Dawn. Whether you believe those old tales or not, they are all we know about this inhospitable region. Not even the wildlings inhabiting the northern mountains dare go there. They believe the strange, dark gods they worship can't protect them from the great evil that lingers in the cursed ground.”

“They say these lands want you dead.” Benjen Stark held his torch closer to the corpse in the cage. “No vegetation, no game, no people, only endless plains of ice and snow. Going there is a death sentence, even if the legends are nothing but tales to scare children, and I think by now we agree that's not the case.”

For a while it was quiet and the men watched the creature as if it held any answers. “Now one question remains, how do you kill them?” Stannis broke the silence. He regarded first the Lord Commander, then the men guarding the cage and finally the First Ranger. “Manning the Wall will keep these things out, but we can't let them roam out there forever.”

“We beheaded one of them during our encounter,” Benjen Stark replied. “It kept stumbling around for a while, but in the end it collapsed and stopped moving. However, it was not easy cutting its head off, Gared and Waymar Royce were killed by the creature though its head was only barely attached to the body at that point. Getting it off took four or five strikes. They landed three from what I saw, but it was Thoren Smallwood who finally succeeded.”

“Cutting off other limbs doesn't hold any promise,” Mormont began. “The second creature the scouts brought back still put up a fight without the lower half of its body before it succumbed to the Wall's magic. And this one...” He kicked the cage, but the armless corpse ignored it and kept trying to get a bar between its teeth. “Stabbing it doesn't work either, we tried it several times. Pierced every spot that would kill a man in an instant. Throat, heart, and lungs, all to no avail,” Mormont said instead of stating the obvious. “We were about to burn it, then Lord Stark's message reached us. When we heard we wouldn't be on our own with this we postponed it until your arrival.”

“A pile of teeth would be much easier to deal with, even if the fire doesn't break the spell altogether,” Davos muttered under his breath.

“This is what worries me,” Maester Aemon replied to Davos' surprise. “These lands are barren and frozen. Fire makes for an awful choice of weapon in this climate, yet it might be the only weapon we'll have if they come in greater numbers. How will we set the Lands of Always Winter ablaze when that happens?”

“You said the Wall's magic will protect us,” Lord Stark turned to him. “We'll re-garrison the abandoned castles. The dead won't get further than that and we can pick them off one by one with flaming arrows from above.”

The maester thoughtfully shook his ancient head, his blind eyes still staring to the horizon. “Magic, Lord Stark, is much like a sword. Bash two blades together long enough and one will shatter. Age and wear weakens even the hardest metal and the Wall has stood here for thousands of years.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The memory of the corpse, engulfed in flames, was still vivid in Stannis' mind as he tried to find sleep in his chambers, far away from the Wall. The smell of charred, rotten flesh seemed to waft through the room, the shrieks, the hissing noises echoed in the dark. Even fully ablaze the creature had still tried to snap at its captors, had thrown its burning body against the bars of the cage to break free. There had been no attempt at escape or putting out the roaring flames once the wood had given in. The corpse had stubbornly staggered toward Lord Stark, Stannis and Davos, and still hissed in their direction after the First Ranger and the guards had chopped off its legs.

It had felt like an eternity, but then the gruesome spectacle was finally over. The scorched corpse stopped moving altogether, and the flames slowly died, doused by the snow. It had been the most bizarre sight Stannis had ever witnessed, and now it was only a pile of charred bones. Lord Stark, the Lord Commander and his rangers expressed satisfaction with this result. They spoke about flaming arrows, about accelerating the spread of fire by launching jugs of oil at potential attackers. Even the possibility of using wildfire was mentioned once, to which Maester Aemon objected, advising caution regarding the Wall's icy nature and the dangers of flames that could not be quenched. Davos brought up whale oil as a more predictable alternative. The developments in White Harbor would soon make it a plentiful resource and the Ibbenese might even be willing to supply Eastwatch directly, he said. This suggestion found the approval of Maester Aemon and the Lord Commander, and Lord Stark assured them he would make arrangements with Lord Manderly as soon as he returned to Winterfell.

Back then Stannis had been confident that the situation, while unsettling, was under control. Action had been taken by all concerned parties, there were concrete plans when and how the remaining issues would be addressed. The abandoned castles would be re-manned, one way or another, Northmen, wildlings, and thanks to the Hand, they'd get support from the Vale. Men of flesh and blood would defend the realms with weapons of fire and steel, they would not solely depend on the mysterious magic imbued in the Wall. Perhaps all of this would even see the Manderlys off to a good start with their partners from Ibben. After all, they sought to popularize their whale oil, though for the more innocuous use in lamps, and the true reason for the spike in demand didn't matter.

But still, the disquiet memories kept Stannis awake and the embellished, yet vague tales from children's books did nothing to silence the voice in his mind. _It might be the only weapon we'll have,_ Maester Aemon whispered again and again. _How will we set the Lands of Always Winter ablaze when they come?_


	11. Strange Bedfellows

The persistent rain and wind had made the road longer than it seemed during the warm days of summer, and the colorful trees in the Kingswood were a fiery contrast to the dark autumn sky. Upon arrival in King's Landing their first way had led to the Golden Tankard, a tavern located on the corner of the Muddy Way and the Hook. Outside the wind howled through alleys and blew the light drizzle into the faces of rushed townspeople. Many had already sought shelter in the tavern and the place was fairly crowded, but Danyal had somehow managed to secure a table near the hearth nonetheless. Beric didn't know if this was owed to yet another speech about respecting lords and friends of the king, but right now he also didn't care how Danyal had achieved it. The ale was tasty, the roast was delicious, and by now the cloak and riding coat were dry for the first time in days. Each of these points on its own was a vast improvement to the rain-swept journey and there was no need for putting a damper on the good mood.

“We should take a look at the rooms.” Beric balanced another slice of the roast onto his plate, then generously poured red wine sauce all over it. “Just in case we can't stay in the Red Keep for the entire duration of the winter tourney. This place is only a short walk away, and probably serves the best food in the city.”

Danyal passed him the bowl with the fried mushrooms, then helped himself to another slice of roast as well. “We could stay here for the night,” he suggested and reached for the sauciere. “We'd see the accommodations and spare ourselves from getting drenched again. With some luck the rain will cease in the evening, and we'll make it to the Red Keep somewhat dry in the morning.”

“Hold your horses,” Thoros interjected. “There might not be a 'winter tourney', except maybe in Robert's head. The council hasn't approved of anything as far as I know, and the queen is still vehemently against the idea. It's a bit premature to make plans where we'll stay, don't you think?”

“His Grace was confident about it at Storm's End,” Beric gave back. “I only spoke briefly with him, but he was interested in my suggestions and said we should discuss them the next time I visit King's Landing.” He added more mushrooms to the pile on his plate and picked some up with the fork. “I gave it some thought and perhaps my ideas will help reach a compromise with his advisers.”

“And the king is no fool.” Danyal glared at Thoros as if he was about to lecture an unruly student. “He won't dismiss Beric's wise counsel. I'm as skeptical as they come, but his ideas convinced me.”

Thoros chuckled and sighed, then pulled over the platter with the roast. “I know, you've discussed them at length on our journey,” he said. “But you don't have a seat on the Small Council and you do not wear a crown.”

“I'll talk to the queen, from lion to lion,” Danyal replied with intrepid conviction and Thoros wasn't quite sure if it was meant as a joke. “I get along well with her brother. They're twins, they might share the notion.” He put a forkful of mushrooms into his mouth and continued, now chewing. “And if not I'll illustrate just how busy a tourney would keep the king. I gather the thought of him staying out of her way might be rather appealing.”

“If you get an audience with her.” Beric washed down the roast with a swig from his ale. “I've visited the Red Keep many times, yet I have never heard, not even once, about the queen receiving anyone. Remember last year, when my parents accompanied us to the big tourney held for the anniversary of the Rebellion? They were given chambers reserved for guests of the queen. The servants said most of them are rarely occupied and she never even noticed the rooms were often given to visitors of the Hand or the king.”

“We already have an audience with the king.” Danyal reached for the jug and refilled first Beric's mug, then his own. “I suppose we'll find out tomorrow if he can arrange for a meeting with the queen.”

 

“About that...” Thoros sipped from his wine and poked his fork into the last piece of roast on his plate. “Robert might have gone to Rosby, there's a harvest festival he likes to attend beginning this week.”

Beric and Danyal immediately turned to him with furtive eyes. “And you didn't think to tell us sooner?” Danyal's tone shifted back to that of an affronted maester who hadn't been given all the facts to make an informed decision in the name of his lord. “We could have waited out the worst of the weather in the Kingswood. If you knew His Grace wouldn't be in King's Landing, another day or two in the tavern wouldn't have changed a thing about our delay.”

“Maybe he passed up on the festival due to the weather,” Thoros gave back with a slight shrug. “What difference does it make? We wouldn't have turned around and gone back to Blackhaven either way. If Robert went to Rosby he'll be back in a week or two. I'm sure we can keep busy so long without him.”

While Beric turned his attention back to his roast, Danyal kept glaring at Thoros as if he had committed a grave offense. “This audience with the king is very important to Beric,” he said. “You owe him at least an apology for withholding something you knew would disappoint him.”

“It's fine,” Beric quickly interjected. “We might have arrived the day His Grace was leaving for Rosby. He wouldn't have had the time and calm for discussions.”

“You still had a right to know,” Danyal replied with an air of importance, but Thoros cut him off before he got any further.

“If it puts your mind at ease I'll go and find out if His Grace went to Rosby.” He emptied his wine, got up from the table and took his cloak from the back of the chair. “Looks like the rain stopped for moment. If I hurry I might make it to the Red Keep and back without getting soaked.”

Beric glanced to the window and reached for his mug of ale. “It's still drizzling,” he noted after taking a sip. “You don't have to go, it's not that important. We'll find out tomorrow if the king is in the city and if we have to wait a week or two for an audience, so be it.”

Thoros shook his head and threw the cloak over his shoulders. “I won't be long,” he said and glanced to Danyal. “Once that burning question is answered he won't have anything left to complain about, and that should make for a more pleasant evening.”

“Good point.” Beric chuckled when Danyal huffed at that. “We'll try the blueberry pies while we wait and ask the innkeeper if we can see the rooms.” Before he had a chance to wave for the tavern wench, Danyal jumped up and Beric handed him the empty jug. “And ask if they have mead or honeyed wine,” he nonchalantly added. “If they don't, some more of this ale will be fine.” He waited for Danyal to leave for the counter, then looked back up to Thoros. “You know, I don't really mind this part of his new attitude. It makes a new squire almost redundant. All I need to do is win the last cyvasse game against my father and I'll have the cooking covered as well.” He paused and regarded Thoros with a playful grin. “If His Grace left for Rosby, maybe you can arrange for a training session with Jalabhar Xho instead.”

“You'll get an audience with him either way,” Thoros gave back. “Robert told me at Storm's End that Jalabhar will help with the preparations for the 'winter tourney' in the Great Hall. For all I know he created a new council for it and will offer seats to the both of you.“ He pulled the hood of his faded red cloak over his head and leaned down to whisper into Beric's ear. ”Go easy on those pies, Lord Sunshine. We wouldn't want you to get too fat to fight in the tourney you might soon be planning.”

Beric's head spun around, but Thoros was already on the way to the door, too far away to hear any protest against the playful accusation. Obviously, the situation wasn't all that dire, Beric decided after a quick survey of the collection of bowls and platters on the table. It didn't even warrant a joking objection. Fine, maybe ordering both the beef tenderloin and the pork roast hadn't been necessary. And yes, perhaps four or five sides would have done instead of the seven there were. But it was hardly a gluttonous feast, merely a proper lunch they deserved after a week on the road. He lifted the jug Thoros had abandoned, found it heavier than expected and poured the wine left in it into his mug. In a way it counted as 'training', not as 'indulgence'. After all, feasting and drinking was just as important at the king's tourneys as fighting and a true knight could never be too prepared.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The light drizzle still fell when Thoros went up the Hook. The tall buildings lining the curved street held back the worst of the wind, but the rain and the large puddles foiled his hope of making it to the Red Keep somewhat dry. He walked faster when he reached the foot of Aegon's High Hill, where the Hook connected with the Dragon's Way and fewer buildings provided shelter from the pesky wind, to little avail. His first way in the Red Keep wouldn't lead to the Great Hall or Robert's rooms, Thoros thought. He'd get dry clothes from his own chambers, at least a cloak that wasn't soaked, and maybe, just as a joke, ask servants to carry him back to the Golden Tankard in the queen's palanquin. Who knew? Perhaps they were bored enough and saw the rain as welcome refreshment. They might just do it, though the odds were certainly not in Thoros' favor. He absently greeted the guards when he passed through the gate, still pondering how he could try to talk the servants into it. There were some rather expensive bottles of spirits from Essos in chambers, maybe they had potential as a bribe?

“Thoros of Myr!” a harsh, unfamiliar voice made Thoros stop dead in his tracks. Three gold cloaks had done the same a short distance away, blocking the road to the castle's main entrance. “You have been summoned,” the burliest of the bunch sternly informed him. “Please follow us, Lord Stannis awaits you in the Tower of the Hand.”

Somewhat puzzled, Thoros looked around if there was another Thoros of Myr, but since he was the only one who fit the description he turned back to the guards. “Lord Stannis awaits me?” he inquired, eyeing up the three men with unveiled irritation. “Are you certain about this? You'll probably be in big trouble if this is some kind of prank.”

The two smaller men made a step back when Thoros strolled closer, their hands undecidedly hovered near the hilts of their swords. “These are our orders,” the one the trio had silently chosen as leader confirmed, though he didn't sound all that certain about this not being a joke.

“Who gave them to you?” Thoros asked, still not sure whether he was being arrested for some unknown offense or merely invited by a more than unlikely host.

“Janos Slynt, our commander,” the stout gold cloak promptly replied and now it very much sounded like he was convincing himself that he had received his instructions from a reliable source. “And Lord Tarly gave the order to him, as far as I was told. I don't know what...” His explanation faded into a sigh of annoyance when a strong gust of wind whipped the rain into his face and under his helmet. “Look, I don't know what this is all about,” he then picked up the conversation. “Just follow us, please. Lord Stannis will have the answers you want, and we'll get out of the rain and back to our posts.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The private audience chamber was welcoming and warm, but Thoros was much too puzzled to appreciate the distinguished decorations. By now he had learned that Robert had indeed left the city two days ago, which left Thoros without suspects who had both the will and the means to play such uncanny pranks. Even more baffling, Thoros was not the mysterious prankster's only victim. Jalabhar Xho had already been in the room when he arrived, and the prince didn't look one bit wiser about the nature of this peculiar meeting. And to top it off, the king's brother, a man infinitely less likely to be joking, was apparently in on all this. He sat behind the Hand's desk, calmly studied the pages of an old tome and only looked up when the burly gold cloak announced the second guest's arrival.

“Leave us,” Stannis plainly gave back, closed his book and got up from the chair. He strolled to the round, gold-tinted window and waited until the door had closed behind the men of the City Watch.

“Are we being arrested?” Thoros bluntly asked before Stannis had the time to address his unusual guests.

“If that is the case I demand to know our charges,” Jalabhar added. “I have done nothing that...”

“You are not being arrested,” Stannis cut him off. “You are being deported.” He took a carafe from the ornate sideboard next to the window and placed it on the desk, ignoring the blank stares of the two men by the door. “I find you to be a distraction to King Robert, and he doesn't need distractions from the preparations for the coming winter,” Stannis continued, still strangely calm, almost casual, despite the sudden, crass revelation and his guests' evident shock. “In such difficult times the king can't waste his time with far-fetched dreams of tourneys in the Great Hall or drunkenly ponder conversions to foreign gods.” Two crystal glasses were revealed when Stannis pushed a stack of books aside, and he made a brief, inviting gesture to them and the carafe.

“This is an outrage!” Jalabhar began after exchanging a confused glance with Thoros. “Robert asked me to...”

“No, it is not.” Stannis filled the glasses with golden wine and went back to the Hand's chair. “This is the official story, should someone ask why you are leaving King's Landing.” He sat down and leaned back, then pushed the tome he had studied before aside, as if it hindered his view across the desk. “I doubt someone will ask, but I don't want to take chances.”

Thoros finally woke from his trance, and he furrowed his brow in thought as he regarded the king's brother for a moment. “Official story?” he asked, breaking the brief silence. “What's the unofficial story? My gut feeling tells me I'll like that one much better.”

Stannis took a deep breath, leaned forward and interlaced his fingers. “You are not being deported, as you probably guessed,” he said. “You will leave King's Landing, yes, but I'm asking you to bring something for me back to the city.” He nodded to the glasses and this time his guests approached the desk and accepted the invitation. “I'm giving this task to you because I cannot trust _them._ ” Stannis furtively glared to the window and the rookery in the tower across the courtyard, then turned back to Jalabhar Xho and Thoros. “But I trust you.”

Thoros and Jalabhar exchanged a baffled glance, but neither found words to express their surprise and both quickly took a sip from their wine.

“I know.” Stannis unfolded his fingers and nodded to himself. “Surprises me just as much. But you've always been loyal to my brother. You have no agenda I can't figure out.” His eyes now rested on Jalabhar, as if Stannis was searching for secrets he had missed in the past. “You came here because you wanted your throne back and hoped the king's army would help you. And you...” His glance wandered to Thoros. “You're here because your High Priest wanted a king to follow your god. Robert turned both of you down and you never pressed the matter, you stayed for the comfort a generous friend offered instead. Oaths, not even blood, don't make men honest or loyal. Friendship, however, inspires both.” He opened a drawer of the enormous desk and pulled out a small bag, then dropped it on the table and pushed it toward the edge. “Fare, bribes, whatever you need on the journey. There are ships leaving for the Free Cities later today,” he said. “Be on one of them. And return with answers the maesters can't or won't give me.”

 

Jalabhar skeptically regarded first the bag, then Stannis. “Your brother has been very generous to me indeed,” he said. “Therefore I'm certainly willing to do the crown such a favor. However, Lord Stannis, you are neither the king nor the Hand, and I'm reluctant to believe Robert knows about this request. It is certainly not a coincidence we were summoned after he left for Rosby. I gather your task requires some secrecy, but I'm not keen on leaving the king in the dark. Who says this isn't a ploy to get rid of 'distractions', as you put it? Sneaking out of the city in Robert's absence seems one step too far for my comfort. He might just think we left on our own volition, and I'd rather have a reassurance that we'll be welcome here once this is over. You surely have trustworthy agents you could send in our place, and I can't help but think you see us as disposable enough for an impossible task we might never return from.”

Stannis had quietly listened, as if he had expected exactly these concerns. “You are right, I'm neither the king nor the Hand,” he said. “I don't have the authority, I can't give you orders. This is a request and yes, Robert would not approve of me asking. He'd say you are needed here for his 'winter tourney'.” He opened another drawer and produced an empty piece of parchment, then pushed the inkpot toward Jalabhar. “But there are greater concerns than the placement of targets for archers in the Great Hall, troubles Robert is yet unaware of. My hope is that you care enough about your friend's realms to grant me this favor.” He handed Jalabhar the feather and placed the parchment in front of him. “Write what you want, explain your reasons for leaving,” he said. “I won't read it, I'll put my own seal on it unseen. Give the letter to a messenger of your choosing, I don't need to know who it is. Arrange for him to deliver the message to Robert whenever, however you wish. That's all the reassurance I can offer.”

Jalabhar exchanged a surprised glance with Thoros, but he took the feather, pulled the chair off from the desk and sat down to begin writing. Stannis placed a second empty page on a stack of books and got up, then strolled to the round window, demonstratively looking away from the letter being written. It was silent in the audience chamber, only the flames in the hearth quietly crackled and the quill scraped the parchment. After Jalabhar had finished his letter he rolled up the scroll and left the chair and the quill to Thoros. Once both messages were written Stannis returned to the desk, sealed the scrolls and stamped the stag of House Baratheon into the warm wax.

“What are the questions you need answered?” Thoros broke the silence with an obvious question.

“I wish I could tell you.” Stannis sighed and sat down in the Hand's chair again. “Something is happening, here and in Essos. Reports of 'miracles' being performed in the Free Cities, most of them by followers of your red god. And there's something else, something more worrying going on in the North.” He paused and appraisingly regarded Thoros for a moment. “What I'm telling you now won't leave this room, understood?” Thoros and Jalabhar quietly nodded, and Stannis reluctantly pushed the old tome some closer to them. “Pycelle, the Conclave, they refuse to acknowledge these 'superstitions and legends', but I have seen with my own eyes that there's more to it. Maester Aemon of Castle Black was the only one willing to talk about the matter and he spoke of things I recall you mentioned when you still tried to convert Robert.” He waited for Thoros to inspect the book on the table, a collection of tales from North. “What you are looking for in the Free Cities is a scholar,” Stannis then said. “Someone well-versed in the art of healing to shed some light on the 'miracles' the Spider reports. And someone whose knowledge about these legends hasn't been drowned in grease and wine.”

 

Thoros raised his eyebrows at Stannis, but failed at feigning true offense. “But if you suspect the maesters are conspiring against you, won't they know something isn't right if Jalabhar and I suddenly leave the city?” he asked while skimming through the book's pages. “Pycelle is well-aware of how the king spends his time and it would be out of the ordinary to...”

“No,” Stannis firmly cut him off. “Neither of you is important enough to attract much attention. You're little more than fools or mummers in his eyes. This is why I need you for this task. Not because you are 'disposable'.” He glanced to Jalabhar, then looked back to Thoros. “Because you are invisible. Even the eunuch stopped sending his 'little birds' after you years ago, deeming the drunk ramblings they reported a waste of his time.” He paused and the spark of a sudden epiphany almost made him smile. “Keep your ears open for rumors about the Targaryens as well,” he added. “Varys' spies have been much too quiet. Perhaps you are more accustomed to the songs of the Free Cities than his fowl.”

“The need for secrecy starts making sense,” Jalabhar noted. “Not only are you plotting to go against the Grand Maester's counsel, you don't trust the Master of Whispers either.”

Stannis didn't answer, but the look on his face confirmed Jalabhar's assumption. He took the book back, closed it and stacked it on top of some ledgers. “I take it the task is not 'impossible' then?” he asked, a seemingly rhetoric question meant to conclude the meeting.

“Almost sounds too easy now,” Jalabhar gave back. “The most troublesome part might just be the voyage through the autumn storms plaguing the Narrow Sea.”

“Suspiciously easy, but I'm not complaining,” Thoros added. “My former teacher is a famed healer in the Red Temple of Myr. She's rumored to be considered as the next High Priestess, that's how famed.” He chuckled and earned a puzzled look from Stannis. “She's not a stranger to Pycelle either,” Thoros offered a still puzzling explanation. “He's been trading with her for years, buying herbs, ointments, and rum on occasion. Frankly, I thought you knew about these dealings.”

Stannis let out an annoyed sigh, then his expression changed rather suddenly to one of amusement. “I never gave much thought to the purchase of herbs,” he said. “But if Pycelle knows this woman and is on good terms with her, it will steal all his thunder of protest and save me much headache.” He was about to get up from the chair, but Thoros' voice held him back.

“There's just one more issue,” he said, then continued after Stannis had nodded and leaned back. “Lord Beric Dondarrion and Ser Danyal are waiting for my return in the Golden Tankard. They're here for an audience with your brother and they will ask questions if I leave the city or make claims about being cast out. It will draw more attention to my departure than you might expect.”

“Who's this Ser Danyal?” Stannis' brow furrowed in thought as he tried to put a face to the name, but came up empty.

“Robert pardoned him after his fortieth name day tourney,” Thoros helped. “Saved Beric's life during the joust. Beric knighted him and ever since Ser Danyal has been housed at Blackhaven.”

“Hm.” Stannis slightly nodded and thought about it for a moment. “Will they keep quiet and play along if you tell them the truth?” he inquired.

Thoros shook his head with a chuckle. “I'm afraid not,” he said. “Beric has been keen on visiting Essos for years. If I tell him the truth, that it's only a visit to Myr, he'd probably complain louder about me going without him than he would about my deportation.”

“Then don't go without him.” Stannis got up from the Hand's chair and went around the large desk. “Take him and this Ser Danyal along. Never hurts to have two more swords on your side in the Free Cities. Just make it quick, the ships won't wait forever.”


	12. Departures

“I take it we missed the king by a few hours?” Beric laughed when he noticed Jalabhar Xho drawing all eyes with his flamboyant cape of red and green feathers as he followed Thoros through the tavern. “While I appreciate that you're trying to make up for dawdling about, it's much too noisy here for a game of cyvasse.”

“I'm afraid we don't have the time for playful diversions, my lord.” Jalabhar stopped next to Danyal's chair, but didn't sit down. “Thoros and I are being deported from court, to put it bluntly, and must leave King's Landing by ship at once.”

Beric exchanged a blank glance with Danyal, then both burst out in laughter. “In that case you're probably glad to hear we ordered another round of blueberry pies,” Beric gave back and pulled the chair next to him off for Thoros. “I bet you were exiled to the distant shores of Asshai and I wouldn't want you to go hungry on such a long journey.”

“He's not joking.” Thoros sat down and leaned closer to Beric. “At least not entirely, but I can't explain it here, not with such a crowd.”

Beric quizzically regarded him for a moment, then looked up to Jalabhar, still standing on the opposite side of the table. “You're telling me the king really ordered your deportation?” His gaze slowly wandered back to Thoros, but the answer came from above.

“There are six gold cloaks outside, waiting to escort us to the harbor,” Jalabhar solemnly explained and produced the small bag of gold he had been given by Stannis. “Fare,” he plainly added. “On a ship of our choice, as long as it leaves today and the destination lies across the Narrow Sea.”

“They can't be serious.” Danyal crossed his arms and leaned back. “If the king cast them out, don't you think they'd be upset? He's probably not even in the city and they're just pulling your leg.”

Thoros sighed, put an arm around Beric's shoulders and waved Danyal closer. Once he had leaned over the table, Thoros looked around, making sure no other patrons were listening in. “Robert is not in the city, and he didn't give any orders,” he whispered, contributing even more to Beric's confusion. “It's his brother who asked us to bring him something... _someone_ from Essos. A matter of implicit importance, somewhat of a conspiracy, I suspect.”

“I suppose it won't hurt to take some pies for the way,” Jalabhar loudly declared after exchanging a quick glance with Thoros. “If you already placed the order, I'll tell them to hurry and ask for a basket.” He went to the tavern's counter, drawing the attention of other patrons away from the table as he crossed the crowded common room, and Thoros turned back to Danyal and Beric.

“The gold cloaks don't know about the real task we've been given,” he continued to explain in a hushed tone. “We agreed to play along with the pretense of 'deportation', and once we return to the city it will turn out that this was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“You are right,” Danyal replied, louder. “It won't help your case if you make a fuss over this. Better comply with the order, wait until feelings have calmed down, and talk things out with the king later. I'm sure he'll see reason and let you come back.”

Beric furtively regarded him for a moment, then he turned to Thoros and a roguish smile flashed over his face. “We should accompany you to Essos,” he said. “Resolving the situation will be much easier if you explain what happened to us. You won't be granted an audience as long as you're in exile, but we can speak to the king on your behalf.” He looked stumped when the attempt at persuasion wasn't met with resistance and Thoros simply nodded along with the sneaky suggestion.

“Exactly my thought,” he gave back, took Beric's mug and poured down the ale. “I wasn't sure you'd be able to travel on such short notice, but if that's not an issue...”

“Of course it is not!” Beric quickly interjected. “I'll just tell the guards to relay what happened to my father, then I'll be good to go. They won't be thrilled about being sent back to Blackhaven in this weather, but he should be informed if I leave to foreign shores.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sky was grey as lead when the group reached the harbor and the smell of salt and a coming storm filled the air. There were several ships preparing for their departure nonetheless, though there was no telling what shores they'd sail for. Undeterred by the weather sailors rolled barrels, carried crates, and scurried around on the decks, checking sails, masts and rigging. The escort of gold cloaks had withdrawn to a breezeway that connected the harbor master's tower and the guard post of the Mud Gate, but they were still watching Thoros and Jalabhar with hawk's eyes from the distance.

“Which of these ships is ours?” Danyal's gaze wandered from mast to mast as he tried to make out the flags on top streaming in the afternoon gale. At first glance he couldn't say which crew had just arrived and which would soon be leaving. Some ships were being unloaded, others were taking in supplies for the voyages ahead, there was a bustle on every pier, every deck.

“We're about to find out,” Thoros gave back with a shrug. “Lord Stannis told us there are several ships departing for the Free Cities today, but he didn't say a thing about the exact destinations.” He strolled toward the pier and the nearest ship docked on it, but had no more luck than Danyal in identifying its flag. “If there's one bound for Myr that would be ideal,” he added. “But if such good fortune isn't granted to us we'll have to make do and bribe a captain headed for Tyrosh or Lys into a well-paid detour.”

“Well-paid indeed,” Jalabhar noted, his face almost entirely hidden by wayward feathers of his cape, thanks to the wind. “Considering that the storms won't die down to aid our undertaking I suppose it might cost us quite a sum.”

“You never had second thoughts about spending Robert's money.” Thoros chuckled and nodded to the bag in Jalabhar's hand. “Shouldn't be any different now, just this time his brother covers our expenses.” He went toward the ship, a galley with bright purple sails, and surveyed the deck in search of a captain. “Where's this ship going?” he yelled when two sailors stopped near his position.

“Back home to the Titan,” one of the men cheerfully yelled back, then both returned to their work on the rigging.

“Can't get lucky at first try, can we?” Thoros looked down the pier in both directions, then turned to his waiting companions. “I suggest we split up,” he said. “The longer we wait the more ships will leave without us, so we better hurry if we don't want to miss the best opportunity.”

 

By the time the group reconvened, it was raining stronger and the awning of a warehouse offered little shelter to them. Jalabhar had pulled a hood over his head, but it didn't distract from the fact that he resembled a drenched pheasant by now. The usually flamboyant feathers of his cape clung wet to his shoulders and though it helped drawing less attention, he was all but happy about it. “One bound for Pentos, another for Braavos,” he summarized his findings while trying to shake the rain out of his cape. “I only hope one of you had better luck, otherwise our journey will take considerably longer than expected.”

“Two just arrived,” Beric said, looking back to the direction he had come from. “The third one goes to Gulltown in the morning.”

“Tyrosh, that's the best I got.” Thoros sighed and nodded to a galley near the northern end of the pier. “Brash, young captain, not the most pleasant man I ever met. But at least I have no doubt that he'd take our bribe.”

“He might not get his grubby hands on that money.” Danyal triumphantly smiled and earned hopeful looks from his companions. “I did find a ship bound for Myr,” he explained. “The Ibbenese one, all the way down by the end of the pier. The bad news, however, is that they won't be leaving today. I spoke to the crew and was told the captain is visiting a friend in the city, but...”

“But they won't let us wait for tomorrow,” Thoros interjected, pointedly looking to the gold cloaks by the gate. “And perhaps it isn't the worst idea to let them think we'll be going to Tyrosh. I didn't get the impression that Lord Stannis trusts them. He might prefer some additional misinformation.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I would have thought such a generous bribe would pay for something better than this,” Beric noted, visibly underwhelmed by the cabin. It was neither spacious nor did it offer much comfort, and the lone window, small and round, wouldn't have provided more light even if it had been less dirty. The bunk beds took up the space left and right of the door, under the window a simple board was nailed to the wall and posed as a shelf. There was no other furniture and no room for it either. The passage between the beds was so narrow that Jalabhar rather waited outside while Beric and Danyal inspected their quarters.

“Good thing we're traveling lightly.” Danyal tried to open the large, wooden drawers under the bed and found one of them empty, the other one jammed. “If we had to store a horse or just a suit of armor we'd be in trouble.”

“I'm sure our revered hosts would find room for a horse,” Jalabhar quietly said from the door. His voice, smooth and deep like honeyed wine, carried a pinch of scorn and Beric could make out a slight sneer on his lips in the dim light of the cabin. Before he could inquire about the strange reaction Jalabhar peered down the hallway, made sure the captain was still talking to Thoros, then entered the room. “They don't have the 'livestock' they came for,” he explained, now whispering. “The orlop deck is empty. Our bribe is the only profit they'll make.”

Beric quizzically regarded him and sat down on the bottom bunk, making more room for Jalabhar and Danyal's struggle with the drawers. “Wouldn't they have sold their cargo in King's Landing?” he asked. The captain and his crew spoke a dialect of High Valyrian he did not understand, and Thoros therefore did all the talking. He hadn't mentioned what cargo the _First Daughter's Grace_ carried, and Beric had assumed it was fabrics or spices, as many ships brought such merchandise from the Free Cities.

Jalabhar closed the door and took off his drenched cape, then tried to hang it on the top bunk, perhaps in hopes it would dry faster there. “They didn't have any cargo,” he replied. “Of course the captain claims they sold pear brandy in White Harbor, but that's not quite what the crew chatters about.” The cape hit the wooden floor with a splosh and Jalabhar silently nodded his thanks to Danyal when he handed the wet pile of feathers back to him. “They went to the Shivering Sea with the intent of filling the lower deck with wildlings,” he calmly continued and Beric swallowed as the meaning sank in. “Slavers,” Jalabhar confirmed the suspicion while making another attempt at attaching his cape to the frame of the bed. “I gather they didn't expect any resistance at sea, and were disabused from their misconception by Skagosi raiders who mistook the Tyroshi for smugglers bringing weapons beyond the Wall.” He chuckled, evidently not only because the cape stayed in place this time. “A dance of three savages... It almost reminds me of the constant quarrels between Myr, Tyrosh and Lys. Though it's difficult to say which of them takes on the role of the 'smart' or the 'greedy' daughter, it's only blatantly clear that there isn't a 'lovely' among them.”

“You are rather observant for a glorified jester,” Danyal noted, then fell backwards against the bunk opposite of Beric's when the drawer finally gave in and revealed the ship's secret vault of surplus blankets.

Jalabhar pointedly raised an eyebrow, more at the remark than the abundance of bed covers. “Robert finds my company entertaining,” he said after a pause for effect. “The feeling is mutual, yet it doesn't make him my 'jester' either. For the time being my rule over the Red Flower Vale may seem like a far-fetched idea, but the throne won't stay out of reach forever. I am the rightful prince, after all, and as such I place much importance on staying informed about the current state of affairs.”

Unimpressed, Danyal pulled a blanket out of the drawer and threw it to Beric, then placed another on the empty bunk behind his back. “Of course, I have heard His Grace greatly values your counsel when it comes to important matters, such as the choice of his wine.” He grinned and held out a blanket to Jalabhar. “I spent the last year traveling with Thoros,” he added. “I've heard quite a bit about your dealings at court. Feasting, drinking, the occasional display of trick shots, certainly pastimes fit for a king without a throne.”

Jalabhar calmly took the blanket and stored it on the top bunk above Danyal's head. “If you had listened to Thoros you'd have learned that wine doesn't dull the senses as much as you think. We notice much more than most people suspect. Envoys are coming and going, Robert complains about being pestered with different things. Politics are a game of deception. Being seen as a fool means players are less careful around you and might show you their cards.” He smiled and sat down next to Beric, crouching to not hit his head on the bunk. “I might have just one small, unfair advantage,” Jalabhar continued with a secret smile. “Before I came to King's Landing I was accustomed to the spiced rum of the Summer Isles. The wines served at court are child's play compared to that.”

 

Thoros' expression spoke volumes when he entered the cabin, and it was a tale of overt annoyance. “What a buffoon,” he muttered under his breath, took the blanket Danyal offered him and looked around until his eyes found the unclaimed bunk above Beric and Jalabhar.

“The captain didn't change his mind, did he?” Beric asked while Thoros deposited the blanket and sat down on the bunk across from him.

“That would be rather inconvenient indeed,” Jalabhar added. “Considering we already left the harbor and...”

“On the contrary,” Thoros cut him off and sullenly sighed. “Not only will he take us to Myr as we agreed, he also wants to take us back to King's Landing, granted the storms don't take a turn for the worse. For the same price, of course, and we'd have to conclude our business in a hurry as he'd only be able to wait for three days.”

“So he wants to try his luck at the 'hunt' again.” Jalabhar scoffed and brushed the wet cape away when it was thrown against his face as the ship rocked to and fro. “You'd think he had enough after being run off by raiders on his first attempt, but I suppose our money makes it worth his while even if he returns empty-handed.”

Thoros undecidedly shrugged, but he nodded. “That's what I gathered before the first mate realized I understand the crew's chatter and made some claims about 'taking in new cargo for White Harbor',” he said. “I told the captain we'll consider his offer, but I doubt we'll be able to return on his schedule. Sandrine is a busy woman these days. Even as royal envoys we won't get an audience and convince her to come with us within three days.”

“Maybe you should have announced our coming.” Danyal had managed to close the drawer, though the remaining plethora of blankets hadn't made it easy for him. “Would have made getting an audience with such an important person much easier if she at least knew we are on the way.”

“A letter wouldn't make it to Myr any sooner”, Jalabhar gave back. “It would travel by ship just like we do. Ravens aren't trained to cross oceans, they lack landmarks that aid the birds' orientation. The only truly reliable route goes from Dorne to the southern coast of Essos. Ravens have less trouble finding their way across the Stepstones to Tyrosh, but otherwise the Narrow Sea is not quite as narrow as its name suggests.”

“Besides, a raven would be sent by Grand Maester Pycelle,” Thoros added. “Lord Stannis does not trust him, and he's skeptical about Varys' reports from Essos as well. That's the whole reason he turned to us.”

“We might not be in the best company on this ship,” Beric began and leaned back in the bunk. “But I won't complain about Lord Stannis' decision. I've wanted to see the Free Cities for so long, so I'm glad for this chance. And Myr is a big city, it shouldn't be hard finding a less shady captain for the voyage back to King's Landing.” He sighed when he tried to stretch out his arms and realized just how little space there was in the bunk. “A less shady captain with a more spacious ship...”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“A gamble, for sure.” Jon Arryn leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully watched Stannis across the stacked desk and let the plain statement linger between them for a short moment. “Not that I question your judgement, but perhaps you could elaborate on your reasons as well. I'm baffled enough about the accomplished facts you presented to me, I don't care to take guesses what went through your head.”

Stannis, arms crossed behind his back, kept gazing to the night sky outside the window with the noncommittal interest of a layman astronomer. “The stakes aren't as high as you make them out to be,” he replied. “Their self-interest is rooted in loyalty to my brother. Nobody but Robert can give the peacock an army to take back his throne on the Summer Isles. The priest's comfortable life of indulgence would end if Robert stopped playing along with the pretense of considering conversion.” He leaned forward as if to get a better look at a particular dot of light in the sky, though the night was overcast and not many stars could be seen between the rags of dark clouds. “Lord Beric Dondarrion might have given me some headache one year ago,” Stannis continued. “But he distanced himself from Renly after the wedding fiasco without being 'counseled' by Robert to do so.” He gave up on his halfhearted attempt at making out stars and casually glanced down to the courtyard instead. “They don't meddle with politics, yet they are perhaps the most loyal men in the realms.”

“I'm not talking about sending Robert's friends to find you a scholar,” Jon Arryn gave back. “I'm talking about brazenly doing so under the Council's nose, against Pycelle's advice. It would be something I'd expect from Lord Baelish, not you.”

“Ironic that he's the one at least feigning interest in the matter, yet it was Pycelle who sparked the idea nonetheless.” The courtyard had lost its appeal and Stannis' gaze wandered around outside, looking for something new to examine.

“Pycelle?” the Hand began, but he didn't need to ask further.

“The request to the Citadel for more information?” Stannis' voice betrayed slight amusement when he turned around and faced the desk. “I received an immediate reply from the Conclave, telling me Grand Maester Pycelle already procured all reading material available and I should consult him with further questions.” He scoffed and wandered toward Jon Arryn. “Apparently the old goat let them know I was too nosy about certain things before I had even written the letter.”

“How peculiar,” the Hand noted. “These 'old, irrelevant superstitions' seem to make him more uncomfortable than they should.”

Stannis nodded and absently pulled the chair closer, but remained standing behind it instead of sitting down. “Of course I confronted him and demanded elaboration,” he added. “If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I wouldn't believe a shambling dotard like him could become so hostile all of a sudden. He lectured me about not having faith in his expertise, that the king's advisers shouldn't waste their time with fantastic tales. How it concerns him that the council discusses them during sessions, yet brushes off the very real dangers that could be swept to our shores from Essos any moment.”

“By which he means the 'magical incidents' Varys' spies waste their time with,” Lord Arryn concluded. “The 'charlatans preying on gullible people' and the 'frauds framing the work of medicine as magic', as he put it last week. If there's nothing to it, why does the thought of them coming to our shores bother Pycelle so much?”

“It would be an 'affront to the Citadel' and the work of the maesters if things like these happened right at our doorstep,” Stannis gave back. “According to Pycelle anyway. 'The realms must condemn witchcraft and the like, allowing such false beliefs to take hold would signal the decline of our culture.' Except, of course, when he needs herbs from Essos. In that case dealing with 'frauds and witches' is just another business transaction and should not be condemned at all.”

“I see.” Jon Arryn's face creased into an expression of mild pity. “He's well-aware these 'miracles' might indeed be owed to actual healers, to discoveries of new plants with medicinal properties, and knowledge ahead of his own. And now he feels threatened by those 'charlatans', is that what you're saying?”

“Might be.” Stannis finally took a seat in front of the desk. “That's his headache, not mine. All I can discern from his behavior is that these 'charlatans' know more than he wants to admit, so it suggested itself to ask them directly.”

“Lord Baelish will be delighted once he learns about this.” The Hand chuckled, but quickly became serious again. “He might not truly care about the cause and only brings it up to pester the Spider, but the way this situation is unfolding we'll need any friend we can get.”

Stannis nodded and absently regarded stacked scrolls and books on the table. “I never liked him,” he plainly said after a short silence. “The man cares more about peddling sins to the city than the fate of the realms. But he's persistent, he has a spy network of his own, and we can't be picky.” He sighed, leaned back and glanced to the window. “Him, the two of us, and Randyll Tarly. Never thought a ragtag band like that would bear the king's burden of protecting the realms.” He scoffed to himself and looked back to Lord Arryn. “The Hand, the master of ships, a groveling general and the city's premier whoremonger. We should walk into a tavern together one of these days, just to see if the gods descend from the heavens and deliver a punchline.”

“Tarly?” Lord Arryn quizzically raised his eyebrows. “I didn't think his obvious attempts at currying favor would work on you. He's chumming up because he thinks you gave him the seat on the council. Was that enough to garner your trust?”

“I didn't say I trust him,” Stannis replied. “I also don't care about his motivation. He's a soldier, it's his nature to do as he's told without asking questions. He didn't ask why I wanted two of Robert's friends apprehended in his absence, and sent the gold cloaks without hesitation. Trust may come later, knowing he'll follow my orders is good enough for the moment.” He paused and the hint of a smile played on his face when he got up from the chair. “I'm beginning to think Robert accidentally made a good choice when he insisted on Tarly's appointment to the Small Council.”

The Hand undecidedly nodded and got up as well. “It is late,” he said, holding back a yawn and looking to the dark sky outside the window. “Let us hope things works out the way you planned and we'll get more reliable insights into the developments in Essos. Tomorrow's meeting should give us some well-earned rest and distract the unsuspecting victims of your ploy with trite debates and appalling banalities.”

“The wedding at Highgarden.” Stannis went to the door and rested his hand on the knob. “Under normal circumstances I wouldn't be thrilled about the prospect of discussing this subject. But Ser Loras announced the wedding at a rather convenient time indeed. It will occupy the council's minds even though none of them will attend or truly cares who a third son will wed.”


	13. Birthright

“Who is this Ser Hubard Rambton?” Satal looked up to Lady Olenna from the long scroll she had been given by her. “And why is Lady Sallana Footly not on this list? I finally made a friend from the Reach and now she's not invited to my own wedding?”

“Because she's Lady Sallana Langward now,” the Queen of Thorns gave back, unimpressed. “Her husband's father, Lord Keldyn Langward, hunts with the king on occasion. It would only be a waste of time if we tried to turn him to our side.”

“Then why are we inviting Lord Bar Emmon to the wedding? Why Lord Sunglass, Ser Hubard and their sons?” Loras interjected. “Why the old Red Crab of House Celtigar? They are all sworn to Dragonstone and even I barely know them. I'd be surprised if I spoke to each of them just once during a tourney.”

“Perhaps you should have listened better.” Lady Olenna took a pointedly slow sip from her wine. “Yes, they are sworn to House Baratheon, but 'of Dragonstone' is an inconsequential addition. Neither side is truly happy with this arrangement, and it's been known for a long while. Lord Sunglass stays away from the king's tourneys because he deems them a cesspool of sin. House Rambton agrees with the notion and has been just as outspoken about it. Both lords highly value the virtues of the Seven, and they think their liege should do more to guide his brother into this direction, not idly stand by as the king's morals decline.” She glanced over the selection of cakes on her platter, then dismissed the treats with a wrinkled nose and looked back to Loras. “And I presume Lord Bar Emmon was not pleased when he heard that his liege thinks of him as a 'dimwit, not suited for ruling even these subpar lands'. Unlike Lord Landward, these men might be susceptible to our suggestions.”

“Like a different liege of the same name,” Loras concluded with an annoyed sigh. He turned around and strolled to the window, let his gaze wander over the autumn gardens and the evergreen hedges of Highgarden's maze. “I don't object to feeling out possible allies during our celebration,” he said after a while. “But it is still our wedding. Our friends should be invited, regardless of their fathers' allegiances. There's no harm in having them around, is there?” He looked over his shoulder to Lady Olenna's armchair. “You can conspire with your guests, we'll celebrate with ours.”

“Wouldn't it lend credibility to our prosperous union?” Satal tried her luck. “If these men are so devoted to the Seven we shouldn't give them any reason to doubt our 'true, godly love'.” She held her breath as Lady Olenna carefully considered the words, and both Satal and Loras laughed with relief when she slowly nodded.

“I suppose you are right,” Olenna said with a grandmotherly smile. “A few more guests won't drink us dry. Make a list, within reason, and give it to Maester Lomys. The recent storms will serve as excuse for the delayed invitations.”

 

“I bet it's some sort of 'test' to see if we'll stand up for each other.” Loras opened the door and waited for Satal and the long trail of her autumn dress to enter the staircase. “Or an especially transparent ploy to conserve supplies for the winter, a long list of distinguished guests, handpicked for the odds that they won't come.” He closed the door and followed Satal up the stairs. “Lord Leyton hasn't left his tower in Oldtown since I was squire, Ser Bennard Brune lacks any desire to travel. Lord Celtigar would only make an appearance if we covered his expenses and released him from the burden of being expected to waste his hard-earned coins on a wedding gift.”

“For all I care they can stay away.” Satal sighed as she reached the landing and dragged her train across it toward the hallway. “I suppose it's not a confession a lady should ever make, but I never dreamt of my wedding, not even when I was a young girl.” She wandered to the nearest window and absently gazed to the clouded sky above the sprawling gardens. “Maybe I knew deep down that it would never happen the way I would dream it,” she continued. “So I didn't allow myself to get lost in illusions, though I was much too young to understand why.”

“You did yourself a great favor.” Loras joined her by the window and leaned his arms on the sill. “Ever since Garlan's wedding I dreamt of my own. Of course I knew it wouldn't be Renly saying the words, but when I closed my eyes the illusion was perfect.” He glanced to Satal, then looked back to the gardens. “It was a rude awakening when I was told about our betrothal, but after a while my dreams took on a new form.”

Now Satal looked at him, slightly puzzled. “The form of a nightmare we can at least laugh about?” she concluded.

“In a way,” Loras gave back, then fell silent for a moment. “All things considered it could be much worse. We'll have a spouse we don't need to deceive, we can laugh about the situation together.” He paused and cleared his throat. “When I think back to Garlan's wedding I never picture myself in his place, never Renly or you in the place of his bride. I remember the celebration, that's what the new dream entailed. Coming together with friends, good wine and food, laughing and telling stories of our travels. You and I, we _are_ friends. We could have had that kind of wedding without being lovers.”

“If our friends were invited, not strangers your grandmother wants to seduce,” Satal noted with a frustrated chuckle. “Who's missing from your list? Andrey Dalt because there's no need to persuade him to take our side?”

Loras chuckled as well and shook his head. “He's invited, along with his brother,” he said. “Balon Swann's name was omitted, as was Beric's. Both have been 'hunting with the king on occasion' and Thoros' constant presence certainly didn't help Beric's case.”

“Do you think Margaery had to fight about gown colors, the guest list, and the wedding menu the way we do?” Satal sighed and brushed her dark curls back over her shoulder. “It all seemed so easy when she spoke about her wedding. Nothing was left to chance, yet she effortlessly got all that she wanted.”

Loras slightly shook his head and kept watching the rain through the playful grilles of the bay window. “She's playing the game,” he said after a short silence. “We're only pieces on my family's board.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Can't you speak to Lord Stark, explain our situation?” Lady Hannah set her mug of mulled wine down on the small table between her armchair and the hearth. “He stayed here only a few weeks ago. Perhaps he'll understand and reconsider the order!”

Leiff shook his head and watched Harrion add another bucket to the stack in the hallway. “We have to make sacrifices,” he gave back. “The letter explained it and it's not our place to question Lord Stark.” He counted the fishing rods that leaned against the wall, then turned around to his mother. “The Umbers have been asking for help regarding the wildlings for years. Now they finally received an answer. We should be glad the issue is being addressed.”

“I am,” Lady Hannah quickly assured him. “But this order, how are we supposed to afford it? We don't have enough men. How will we protect our own lands if we send half of them to the Wall?”

“We didn't send 'half' of our men,” Leiff corrected. “We sent six, the second and third sons who are older than thirteen. That's all Lord Stark asked for, and that's what we can spare.” He took the fur-lined cloak Harrion handed him and threw it over his shoulders, then pulled up the hood. “Once the Wall's garrisons hold back the wildlings we'll need fewer guards on our lands.”

“It is a demand the great houses can comply with,” his mother replied with a sigh. “Gordyn has barely been a guard for two years now, yet you had to promote him to captain because we lost the more seasoned men.”

“He was Gesson's second in command for several months,” Leiff firmly said. “And he didn't come to Frostspear Hall without experience either. He's been a guard in Mole's Town for almost a decade, and he only left because Harrion told him father was looking to hire more men. There hasn't been a single complaint from his former employer.” He closed the clasps of his coat and pulled the cloak tighter, then picked up the buckets and one of the rods. “I didn't promote him without thought or for a lack of other options.” The door to the yard swung open and a gust of cold wind swept through the hallway as two of Frostspear Hall's hunters entered and gathered their gear. “Don't worry about it,” Leiff added, looking back to his mother. “It's a much greater concern if the horse will be strong enough to carry all the fish we will catch.”

Lady Hannah nodded resignedly and took back her mug of wine. “I hope you are right,” she said with another deep sigh. Her eyes followed Leiff and Harrion down the hallway and to the saddled horses waiting outside. “Perhaps I worry too much and it is nothing,” she muttered to herself. “But I can't help the feeling that something is amiss.”

 

“So we are still pretending that Lord Stark's order doesn't apply to Benjen.”

Kareena's voice startled Lady Hannah and when her head swirled around she found her daughter-in-law standing in the doorway, the silver-grey fur of a wolf wrapped around her shoulders for warmth.

“I didn't dare broaching the subject,” Lady Hannah gave back. Her glance drifted away from Kareena and got lost in the crackling fire of the hearth. “I went to the weirwood last night, I prayed that Benjen and the others had long crossed the Weeping Water when Lord Stark's raven reached the Dreadfort. That they sought shelter from the storms among the trees of the Hornwood and went unnoticed by Lord Bolton's men.” She absently sipped from her wine and looked back to Kareena. “Lord Bolton was never reluctant in the past when it came to harsh punishment. If he finds out his own bannermen disobey Winterfell's orders...”

“I prayed to my gods as well,” Kareena replied when Lady Hannah's voice trailed off and faded. She sat down in one of the armchairs by the hearth, took the wolf fur off her shoulders and repurposed it as a blanket instead. “I asked the Mother for protection on his journey, and the Crone to safely guide him to his destination.” She paused, adjusted the fur over her legs and nodded her thanks to the maid when she filled a second mug with mulled wine. “However, I recalled my journey through the North and thought it unlikely that Benjen had already passed through Bolton's lands. So I prayed he'd have the wit to claim he's the firstborn son of Harrion's sister, should they encounter patrols.”

Now a faint smile played on Lady Hannah's lips and she slightly nodded. “He's always been quick of wit,” she said. “He might have thought of just that.” She sipped from her wine and there was a short silence, then Lady Hannah's voice sounded firmer when she spoke again. “I'm relieved Lord Stark took measures to protect us from the wildlings, but boys this young and this bright don't belong at the Wall. 'Those younger than sixteen will be assigned to the stewards and builders', as if that makes it any easier for all the families losing their sons.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“What is wrong with these sailors?” Beric's gaze followed three Tyroshi crewmen as they passed by the table and took seats on the far side of the ship's common room. “They glare at me as if I threatened to slay their mothers, yet they pester me with idle chatter at any chance. And they know I don't even understand them with their strange accent!”

“How do you know it's idle chatter if you don't understand them?” Danyal raised his eyebrows in disgust at the bowl Thoros set down in front of him, then turned back to Beric. “Maybe they're just looking to make conversation and think of you as rude because you appear so tight-lipped.”

Thoros sat down next to Beric and placed two more bowls of a thick stew on the table. “It is idle chatter,” he said and began inspecting the greenish goo with his spoon. “Remarks about their hope that the weather gets better and generic greetings.” He wrinkled his nose at the whole onion that emerged from his stew, fished it out and put it next to the bowl. “If they're trying to start conversations they have a funny way of going about it.”

“Why do they always address me?” Beric cringed at the first taste of his dinner, dropped the spoon and pushed the bowl away. “They look at me even though they should have realized by now I ask you for translations. Why don't they simply speak to you instead?”

“It is because you're 'too red',” Jalabhar dryly informed him and all jaws dropped when he placed a plate with buttered greens and fried fish on the table. “I was curious about the crew's strange behavior myself, so I asked the captain. It is some kind of superstition, they speak to you to avert bad luck. I gather it's similar to holding up a talisman to ward off evil spirits. Speaking to you before you can address them is the sailors' way of showing they are not afraid.” He shrugged and sat down between Thoros and Danyal. “I suppose the evil spirits then go pester someone else, someone who didn't display his courage by making small talk about the weather.”

“I'm 'too red'?” Beric's gaze wandered back and forth between the more appealing food and Jalabhar's feather-framed face. “The three of you are red all over, I'm the only one out of us not wearing a red cloak or cape!”

“Your hair,” Jalabhar duly noted and unwrapped a fork and spoon from a cloth. “According to some sailors, red hair means you were touched by fire, and if you speak to them it breaks their bond with the sea. Some Tyroshi dye their hair blue or green for that reason, because no captain would employ them if it was red.” He paused and appraisingly regarded Beric for a moment. “It does look redder than it did during summer,” he concluded his findings. “The golden shroud fell victim to rust, like trees take on fierier colors in autumn.” Thoros and Danyal thoughtfully stared at Beric as if he had spontaneously grown a new head and Jalabhar had been the only one observant enough to notice.

“My hair always has a tinge of red,” Beric tried to wake them from their sudden fascination. “It may be more pronounced in the colder seasons, but it can't have escaped you during summer. It's right there on my head, you see it every day!”

“No, no, he is right.” Thoros brushed the protest away with a vague wave of his hand and studied Beric's beard with the keen eye of a scholar. “You didn't wake up one day with the shroud of your father, but there is more resemblance since the sun started staying away.”

The ship heavily rocked to and fro, and the strong motion almost sent Jalabhar's fried fish flying over the table. He managed to catch it in a not too elegant fashion by slamming his hand down on it before the meal escaped his plate. “Shouldn't the ship be at anchor this late in the evening?” he made a halfhearted attempt at distracting his companions from the incident, but it his notably more appetizing dinner had once more caught their attention.

“How come you have fish and buttered greens and we have this?” Danyal pointedly tilted his bowl in Jalabhar's direction. “Do the sailors also believe hairless men mean good luck?”

“Hairless...” Jalabhar scoffed and brushed over the black stubble with his clean hand. “Apparently not a soul on this ship has a blade sharp enough for a shave. It hasn't even been a full week and I already look like a savage.” Three pairs of reprimanding eyes stared at him and there was a short silence, except for the stomping of sailors who returned to the deck. “By the measures of my people,” Jalabhar sharply added, then his gaze wandered to Thoros. “Though I seem to recall something about...”

“The fish,” Thoros cut him off. “Why do you have it?”

“Bribed the captain,” Jalabhar gave back. “He lowered the price considerably when I told him that I am the brother of the Summer Isles' current queen. After yellowish, brownish, whitish, and two kinds of greenish stews, all of which tasted putrid and stuck to my teeth, I didn't want to take chances with yet another foul color.” He sheltered the plate with one arm when Danyal inched closer and quickly gathered the vegetables the tide had scattered before. “Talk to the captain, I'm sure he'll extend the same offer to you.”

“Damned crook, he won't see another penny from me,” Thoros grunted and stubbornly plunged his spoon into the stew. “We already paid too much for the broom closet he calls a 'cabin'.” He smirked to himself, then looked to Jalabhar over the steaming stew on the spoon. “Though maybe I could steal your bargain if I tell him you're exiled and your queenly sister is the reason...”

Jalabhar huffed, but before he could answer Beric dropped his spoon on the table and got up from the bench. “Crook or not, I've had enough. If I keep eating this goo I'll need a healer long before we reach the shores of Myr. I'll speak to the captain and hopefully make better arrangements, no matter the cost.”

“If he drops his act of only speaking Valyrian,” Thoros muttered into his beard before courageously eating a spoonful of his stew.

Beric reached under his surcoat and produced the purse he carried on his belt. “He'll remember the common tongue soon enough,” he said, tossing the small bag up and catching it in the air with the other hand. “It seems rather obvious which language the man understands.” He turned on his heel and left the table, and a few moments later he had disappeared through the hatch.

 

The ship was still rocking rather heavily with the tide, and the pause in their conversation brought upon the realization that it was eerily quiet in the common room by now. The sailors had finished their meals or abandoned the bowls, and only the crashing of waves and the howling wind filled the strange silence.

“We should have reached the Ragged Teeth by now and cast anchor at the shores of the largest island, yet we're still moving and all hands are on deck,” Danyal noted as he looked around among the deserted tables and to the door dividing the galley from the common area. “I don't even see the cook anymore. Paired with a raging storm and a reckless captain this doesn't bode well.” The creaking of planks above their heads grew louder and there was a distant clamor of voices, furious shouting almost drowned out by the sounds of the sea. Danyal got up from the bench and let his spoon drop into the stew. “I'll take a look what's going on up there,” he said with a nod to the stairs. “If we are in trouble I'd rather find out right away.”

“You think our situation could be that dire?” Thoros' gaze followed Danyal as he crossed the room. “Storms are not uncommon in autumn and the captain warned us that there might be heavy seas.”

Danyal stopped by the stairs and scoffed before he answered. “I grew up on the treacherous shores of Sweetsister. The wind sang my lullabies and the waves rocked my cradle. It's not the storm I'm worried about, it's the halfwit at the helm.” He went up the stairs and stopped again right under the hatch. “If he's even at the helm and not in his cabin, counting the bribe Prince Spendthrift paid him for the fish.”

 

The hatch fell shut behind Danyal and Jalabhar slowly pushed his plate with the barely touched food toward Thoros. “Have some of this,” he said. “I paid a small fortune for it, yet my appetite vanished all of a sudden.” Thoros shrugged, pushed his bowl aside and pulled the plate closer, then both his and Jalabhar's eyes followed the stew as it slid down the table thanks to the tide. “Who did you give the letter to?” Jalabhar inquired and the tone of his voice made it out to be more than small talk despite the casual question.

“Teryn, one of Beric's guards,” Thoros replied and cut a piece off the fish. “Beric ordered him back to Blackhaven, so I told Teryn to give the scroll to Lord Ossyn. And after everything Stannis told us, I think picking someone not residing in King's Landing was a good choice.” He tried the fish and found it much more to his liking than the stew. “A bit predictable perhaps, but should we really have trouble getting back into the city, retrieving the scroll will be easy for Beric.” Jalabhar nodded, seemingly relieved at this answer, and quickly stole a forkful of greens back from the plate. “Why? Who did you give it to?” Thoros asked, now chewing.

Jalabhar sighed and reached into his robes. “I came to the same conclusion,” he said as his hand produced the scroll. “That I shouldn't trust anyone in the Red Keep with this information, therefore I decided to give the message to a captain.” He stored the scroll back under his robes and took a piece of fish Thoros had cut off from the plate. “The Braavosi I spoke to didn't strike me as particularly trustworthy,” he added. “And the one from Pentos said he wouldn't return to King's Landing for several months. I didn't worry too much about it since I was already convinced Stannis had no ulterior motives, but should we not return from this voyage I'd want Robert to know why we left.”

A sudden lurch went through the ship before Thoros could answer, accompanied by the crashing of wood. The abrupt motion almost sent both men flying from their seats on the bench, and the volume of the shouting and trampling from above increased all at once.

“It would appear this is an excellent time to be alarmed!” Thoros burst out as he tried to stand up without losing his balance. Jalabhar hastily nodded, just as shaken by the shuddering of the ship and the voices on deck. Bowls, spoons and mugs had been thrown off the tables, and clattered on the floor as Thoros and Jalabhar rushed to the stairs through the chaos.

 

There was no telling if the _First Daughter's Grace_ had already sailed past the tiny isles known as the Ragged Teeth. If the desolate chain of sharp rocks was out there, the view was obscured by the raging water, the dark of a stormy night, and a thick layer of fog. Waves crashed over the deck, the storm tore on the sails and shouting sailors bustled about with no apparent sense of direction. Only when Thoros stumbled away from the common room's hatch he saw that most of them were attempting to lower the dinghy into the sea. The boat was much too small for the group, it had room for six, perhaps seven, yet there were close to twenty men gathered on starboard. There was a voice shouting 'Man overboard!', but the sailors ignored it and kept pushing and shoving near the rail. A wave, menacing and tall as the curtain wall of a castle, crashed over the ship and swept every man on deck off his feet. The shouting had ceased when Thoros pulled himself up on the rigging and tried to regain his orientation, but the fighting over the dinghy continued as soon as a handful of sailors stood upright again.

“The ship's run aground!” Jalabhar's voice seemed to come from far away, but he turned out to be right behind him when his hand grabbed Thoros' arm. “I heard someone say the lower decks are already flooded!”

“Where are Beric and Danyal?” Thoros looked around, but couldn't make out a thing in the ongoing mayhem of panicked crewmen, amidst the raging sea. “We need to find them! We...” Another wave cut him off, crashing loud as thunder as it tore down the foremast and smashed it into the rail.

“The captain's cabin!” Jalabhar shouted through the rumbling and dragged Thoros toward the rear deck by his arm. The ship had a heavy list to port by now, and the deck was scattered with loose ropes from the rigging, barrels and slippery seaweed, making every step forward a challenge in its own right. “And stay near the rail!” Jalabhar added and tightened his grip on Thoros' drenched sleeve. “Whatever the ship collided with, it is on the port side and that might be our only chance if...”

His words were drowned out as another wave swept over them. A violent shake rattled the deck, then the slippery planks were gone and the world became a swirl of cold, dark water.


	14. A Rock And A Hard Place

When Thoros opened his eyes the world was still spinning, but it was less wet and dark, and quite confusingly so. Wherever he was, the place was not too comfortable either, which shattered the desperate, distant hope that the last night had been a bad dream. Even the modest bunks of the _First Daughter's Grace_ had been softer, less rocky, and the cabin hadn't smelled so strongly of sea water and salt. Once the world finally stood still and Thoros regained the resemblance of a sense for direction, he became aware of the lack of motion. He heard the waves of the Narrow Sea from nearby, but it was evident that he was on solid ground, not the deck of a ship.

Slowly, Thoros sat up and blinked when the glowing shape of the rising sun superseded the murky, greyish-blue sky in his field of vision. The hazy rags drifting through the early dawn weren't clouds, he realized when he looked around. Instead they turned out to come from a fire, or the attempt at keeping one burning a few steps away.

Jalabhar looked as battered as could be expected, and quietly cursed to himself while fanning a pitiful flame with the lower part of his cape. Next to him lay the remains of a crate or a barrel, damp planks and some rope, and the ornate, golden dagger Jalabhar usually carried on his belt. When Thoros crawled closer on all fours, not yet trusting his balance, he also made out the scroll on the pile of debris, one edge only smoldering as the parchment was too wet to burn.

Thoros' gaze wandered to the shore of the small, rocky island, but he turned back to the fire when he heard Jalabhar's voice. “She's gone,” he plainly said. “I saw the mast disappear in the first light of day. Ragged Teeth, Bowbiter Islands, these rocks sure earned every name they are called.” He nodded vaguely toward the coastline where the outline of a sharp rock fragment, emerging from the sea like the tooth of a giant beast, could be seen. Thoros just gaped at him in utter shock and for a while it was silent, except for the rushing water and the crackling of the fire eating through the wet scroll. “Haven't seen the dinghy though,” Jalabhar added. He lowered his cape and sat back when the plank finally caught fire and a larger flame reached for the parchment. “Perhaps someone else was washed up on this island. I tried to light a fire as it was still dark when I awoke, so other survivors might see us from the distance.” After glancing to the sunrise over his shoulder Jalabhar sighed and looked back to Thoros. “It took longer than I had expected. A lack of practice, I suppose.”

“You haven't seen anyone else?” Thoros got out. “There must be other survivors! If you saw the mast the currents can't have taken us too far from the ship. We need to search the island! We need to find Beric and Danyal! They might be somewhere nearby and in no condition to...”

Jalabhar stood up from his kneeling position and offered Thoros a hand. “That might be the only blessing in our situation,” he said as he pulled Thoros up to his feet. “This island can't be larger than the Red Keep. The terrain won't do us any favors, but if someone is here we will find them and the daylight should be enough for us to not break our necks in those cliffs.” He looked around on the ground next to the fire and picked up a smaller piece of wooden debris to ignite it. “We should gather any driftwood we find,” he said as he put the wood on the pile. “The vegetation is sparse and we better keep this fire burning.”

Thoros absently nodded while he surveyed their surroundings. A step hill rose from the island's middle, and reaching the brambles and shrubs growing on it wouldn't be easy. In the orange light of the morning sun the red rock appeared soft and smooth, but this impression was deceptive. The silhouette of the western edges, still shrouded in dusky darkness, gave away a ragged and sharp outline of the formation that would be hard to climb. There were some weeds and mossy patches on the craggy, uneven ground around the fire, but none of these would keep it burning for long. The best they could hope to find on this island was a cavern that would at least provide some shelter from the weather, but as far as firewood and food was concerned they were on their own.

 

“Well, it's something,” Thoros heard Jalabhar say from a short distance, and he hurried to follow him down the small slope. There was a natural bay where the sea had eroded the rust-colored stone of the island, leaving an oval basin surrounded by smooth, steep cliffs. The tides had swept all sorts of detritus ashore, and rotting seaweed squished under Thoros' feet as he descended the slope. Jalabhar stood amidst the discovery that had sparked his moderately excited remark, crates and barrels, some of them broken, lay strewn about along with their scattered contents. “Cured mutton, salted pork, I'm not sure,” Jalabhar narrated his findings as he lifted the lid of an intact barrel with his dagger. “Not much left of it, but it's much more than nothing. I suspect it may take a while before rescue arrives.”

“Rescue?” Thoros stared at him in bewilderment and slowly went closer. “Most captains avoid these waters at any cost. Nobody will come for us, the best we can do is find enough wood to fashion a raft and try to reach the more frequented shipping lanes to the north.” He watched Jalabhar put the lid back on his barrel, then pick it up and carry it toward the cliffs. “Which is why we need to find Beric and Danyal, or any other survivors. They know at least marginally more about sailing and currents than we do and...”

“Absolutely not.” Jalabhar set his barrel down and returned to the field of debris to sift through it. “Even if we find the whole crew alive behind that mountain, we're not leaving this island on a raft.” He kicked a broken crate, found it empty and threw it toward the remains of some barrels. “Obviously the crew and their dimwitted captain were not as familiar with these waters as they believed. This leaves us with Danyal, perhaps the closest to a sailor there was on the ship, and that's still very far from a reliable navigator.” He picked up what looked like part of a broken oar, then used the shaft to poke around in the debris. “We have a fire, and these crates should provide enough wood to keep it burning for days. What we should do is find a way up that mountain. Light our fire there, so it can be seen from the distance.”

“And who do you think will see it?” Thoros inquired, baffled by Jalabhar's easy confidence in their rescue. “How many reckless captains do you expect to get this far off course?”

“One is all we need,” Jalabhar replied on the way back to the slope. “And we are not that far from the shipping lanes. These islands make for good breakwater in severe storms. Some captains come here to anchor and wait out the weather. Pirates from the Stepstones, for example.”

Thoros stopped a few steps behind Jalabhar, almost back on top of the slope. “Is that what the dimwitted captain told you?” he asked. “Look how well 'waiting out the weather' worked out for us.” He hurried to follow Jalabhar when he began walking along the top of the steep cliffs surrounding the basin, looking for a way around it to the other side of the mountain. “And I'd rather not be 'rescued' by pirates. They aren't known for their charity, in case it escaped you. At the off chance they even find us out here we'd be taken prisoner and sold as slaves in Volantis. As you just said yourself, we aren't that far from the routes merchants sail, we...” He broke off when Jalabhar stopped on top of the rock outcropping he had climbed, and seemed to have spotted something in the distance.

 

“That's the dinghy,” he said, lifting one hand over his eyes to shelter them from the bright rising sun.

Thoros followed to his elevated position as fast as he could. “That _was_ the dinghy,” he corrected once he saw the remains of the boat, half-submerged and drifting beyond two tall, rocky teeth in the distance. It was hard making out details since the sun blindingly reflected on the waves, but whether the blurry shape in the boat was an oar or a piece of rope didn't matter. The boat was drifting away to the southern horizon, and it wouldn't make it too far before sinking due to the obvious leak.

“You still think a raft is a good idea?” Jalabhar had begun descending the hill on the other side, careful to not slip on the loose rubble. “We'd end up just like the dinghy, and only if we were lucky. Imagine another storm catching us out in open water, far from these islands or any other land. I rather take my chances with pirates than paddle my way toward certain death under the waves.”

Thoros caught up with him on the foothill. “There's also certain death here if those pirates don't find us in time,” he said. “We'll face thirst and hunger, and some cured meat in a barrel won't sustain us for long.” His gaze wandered over the craggy valley they had reached, a narrow strip of coast looping around the steep face of the mountain. The sparse vegetation didn't look particularly edible, thorny rushes and a patchy web of thin vines clinging to the cliffs far above.

Jalabhar waved the broken oar he had picked up without turning around and continued his way toward a flat plateau. “Remember when Robert took us hunting in the Kingswood, and by the time we got there he changed his mind and felt like catching fish? While everyone scrambled to fashion a rod, I picked up a spear and caught the largest trout ever seen in the Wendwater.” He stopped in front of the boulder formation, washed smooth by the surf. “This island has sharp rocks in abundance. It shouldn't be hard to craft a good spear.”

“You caught that trout eight or nine years ago,” Thoros noted. “And I haven't seen you wield any spears ever since.” He tested the integrity of the pile of stones with one foot, then began climbing up to the plateau, the only path they could take on their way along the shores of the island.

“Perhaps I'm out of practice,” Jalabhar admitted, his voice betraying slight indignation. “But spear fishing has a long tradition in the Red Flower Vale and I was fairly talented at it as a boy. I'll return to my old form before we run out of cured meat.” He traced Thoros' steps up the boulders and shouldered his oar. “We should eat the meat first either way, so we can use the barrel to gather rain water, unless we find a more suited container somewhere.”

He hurried to catch up when Thoros didn't answer and instead climbed down the boulders on the other side of the plateau in a sudden rush. It took a moment to see what had caused the reaction, then Jalabhar spotted the reason in the shade of spiky monolith in the shore's shallow water. Someone lay there, face down in the rubble, surrounded by driftwood and debris from the ship. The remains of the crow's nest were stuck on the rock pillar, along with torn parts of the rigging, and rocked back and forth in the surf.

“It's the captain!” Thoros shouted, stumbling over pebbles and driftwood on the way to his discovery. Some seabirds angrily squawked when he came closer, took off from the boulder, and disappeared toward the peak of the island's central mountain. Jalabhar followed Thoros as fast as he could, using the shaft of his oar for keeping the balance. The descent down the detritus and rocks of the slope bore the danger of slipping, but he made it to the beach without falling in the end.

 

Thoros knelt in the water, but he no longer leaned over the body and stared out to the sea with a blank look on his face. “He's dead,” he plainly said. “Must have drowned before he was washed ashore.”

Jalabhar closed the short distance between them and silently wandered around Thoros and the captain's body, then scoffed when he made out a telltale shape in the water. “Saved the most important thing on board though,” he said and nudged the captain's hand, still clutching a purse, with his foot.

“Shunned no danger for his money,” Thoros added, his voice uninflected, but he nodded to the tangled ropes and the crow's nest. A small chest drifted on the shimmering waves near the monolith, the lid open, and coins of all shapes and sizes lay scattered beneath the shallow water.

Using the shaft of his oar, Jalabhar lifted the captain's arm and plucked the purse out of his cold, dead grasp. “These aren't coins from the Free Cities,” he noted after a brief inspection. “I didn't give him a purse, and the bribe I paid for the fish went in there.” He nodded to the floating chest in the water, then held the small leather bag under Thoros' nose. “This might mean Beric was in his cabin when the ship sank. The same currents that washed the captain ashore might have brought him here as well.” Now Thoros awoke from his apathy and looked up, and there was a more hopeful expression in his eyes. “We should keep looking,” Jalabhar said and offered Thoros a hand to pull him back up to his feet.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

They continued their way along the slanted shore of the island, and reached what was likely the most southern point at the end of the long shingle beach. The foothills of the mountain touched the coast here, ending in a spur that extended out above the foam-crowned ripples of the sea. In the far distance the sun still stood low on the horizon, and its outline was so hazy it seemed to merge with its dazzling reflection in the ocean's surface. Only the tapered pillars broke the monotony and vastness of the water, like the scattered fangs of a leviathan waiting for its prey in unseen depths. Past those treacherous formations lay the two smaller Bowbiter Islands, one so flat it barely rose above sea level in a dead calm, the other resembling a sinking galley with its awry western peak and the southern half lurking under shallow water.

Compared to the slight elevations of the outcroppings they had previously passed the rock spur ahead of them made for a more laborious climb. There were jugs and ledges, some wide enough to stand on, but the way up was steep nonetheless. Neither Thoros nor Jalabhar said a word as they wandered toward the cliff, quietly pondering which of their option held more promise. The rock face was as tall as three or four men stacked on top of each other, and Thoros had never been too fond of heights. But the only alternative to climbing was tracing their steps back around the central mountain and hope there'd be an easier path along the north-western coast. If there was not they'd have to return to this cliff or leave most of the southern shore unexplored.

“What's your verdict?” Thoros turned to Jalabhar, still thoughtfully eyeing up the ragged rock. “I'm not keen on climbing, and that looks rather lofty.”

“I climbed much in my youth,” Jalabhar replied and felt the texture of the rock with his free hand. “This probably looks more intimidating than it really is. The tides have washed away loose stones and rubble, the risk of a wrong grip and losing balance seems negligible to me.”

“In your youth,” Thoros resignedly mumbled. “You're forty, not fourteen. It's been a long time since you scaled any mountains. I'm not sure I trust your expertise over what this looks like...”

Jalabhar slowly raised his eyebrows at Thoros, then turned back to the rugged cliff. “It looks like the right start to get some practice,” he said. “Maybe there's a way leading up even higher, to the top. A fire up there would increase our chance to be seen by ships from the distance.”

“Going up is one thing,” Thoros gave back. “But I dread the thought of climbing back down the same way. Or worse, ending up trapped on top. We have no rope, and it's possible that there's nothing we can use to make fire up there either.”

“Hold this.” Jalabhar held out the shaft of his oar to Thoros. “I'll go alone and see if it's worth it. If it's a dead end we'll return to our fire and try to find a way around the mountain from the other side.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros couldn't tell whether Jalabhar had climbed up the cliff a few moments or a few hours ago. Ever since he had pulled himself up on the edge, not quite with the elegance of a panther as he had announced before doing so, he just seemed to have vanished from this desolate world. Thoros' grasp on the oar shaft tightened without him noticing it as he waited. He subconsciously clutched this one piece of evidence that he wasn't alone on this island, that the nearest living soul was not a week's worth of sea miles away. Only when Jalabhar's voice woke him from the anxious trance Thoros noticed that the sun now stood higher on the southern horizon, and the tension of waiting turned into relief.

“The ledge extends along the south-western coast,” Jalabhar shouted from the top. The feathers of his cape fluttered about in a mild breeze, and paired with the early noon sunshine the cliff almost looked pleasant. “I haven't found a way up to the peak yet, but the climb was worth it,” he continued. “This plateau is fairly flat and scattered with driftwood and planks from the ship, along with some barrels. Most are shattered and empty, but a few look intact.” His silhouette disappeared from the edge and instead a thick rope, clearly part of the ship's rigging, was flung down to Thoros, though it didn't quite reach the ground. “The descent will be easier,” Jalabhar added. “ There's a long slope leading down to the shore in the west.”

Reluctantly, Thoros put the oar shaft into his belt to have both hands free for climbing, then took a deep breath and began the ascent. It wasn't quite as bad as he had imagined, at least as long as he wouldn't have to look down. The rope Jalabhar had thrown down wasn't that far away either. Just a few more arm's lengths and it would be in reach. “If I slip and fall you'll burn me,” he got out. “I'd rather not end up as feast for the sea birds. That honor should be reserved for the captain alone.”

“If I manage to make a fire down there,” Jalabhar gave back from above. “Though I'd be in favor of you just grabbing the rope now and staying alive.”

Thoros glanced up and spotted the end of the rope, then pulled himself onto the next ledge to get closer to it. “You're just too lazy to look through all the barrels by yourself.” Laughing off the peril of falling helped take his mind off the situation and not think too much about where to place his hands and feet.

“I'm neither confirming nor denying this accusation,” Jalabhar replied. “But I will say that there's more wood here than I care to carry back to the fire.”

Thoros huffed, then his hand touched the rope and he quickly grabbed it for better balance.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The clifftop extended ahead like a natural walkway, the edge of the precipice above the ocean on one side, the rutted mountain face on the other. It came as no surprise that Jalabhar hadn't found a path leading up to the peak. From the shore all Thoros had seen was a sheer cliff with rugged features, not unlike the one he had just climbed. However, the rocks looked flatter, more eroded, and were not interspersed with juts and ledges. A rope alone made for woefully inadequate climbing gear, it would have taken a pick, stakes, and spiked boots to even consider the ascend. Standing in front of the crag with the dazzling sun in his back, Thoros could now make out more details, enough to know there was no way to the summit on this side of the mountain.

What he also didn't spot right away was the wooden debris Jalabhar had mentioned, save for a few scattered planks here and there. The first barrel, broken and obviously empty, came into view past the curve of the mountain, a pile of shattered wood that had crashed against the cliff in the storm. Thoros carefully moved along the steep wall, staying as far away from the precipice as he could. He caught up with Jalabhar where the clifftop gradually sloped down into a valley, an incline much more to Thoros' liking than the ledge's eastern side.

“Are you sure you saw the mast disappear before sunset, after the storm had calmed down?” Thoros kicked a barrel and sent it rolling down the slope a short distance, until it was stopped by boulders and what looked like a large shelf or drawer. “There's enough wreckage here to account for half the ship.”

Jalabhar snatched his oar shaft back from Thoros' hand and used it to poke a wet sack on the ground. “It might be half of the ship,” he absently gave back as his gaze drifted across the valley ahead. “It was dark, and most of the wreck was already submerged when I woke up. I couldn't tell if anything beyond the main deck was intact before the waves claimed it.” He briskly made his way down the slope and toward the shore, to a position from where he could see what lurked on the far side of the mountain. “I believe this is where the ship went down,” he said after a short consideration and nodded to a trio of jagged, offshore monoliths, emerging like the talons of a beast from the waves.

 

When Thoros went closer he noticed the claw was clutching something that fluttered and streamed in the wind. It was ragged and green, but darker than the sparse vegetation on top of the mountain, and what held it on the rocky spikes was torn rigging, not vines. “How close to these cliffs did Captain Avarice take us?” Thoros scoffed, stepped over some scattered planks and listlessly kicked an empty drawer aside. “Those spikes are the only obstacle on the western horizon, yet somehow he managed to ram the ship right into them. Unless the sails flew here by themselves from the other shore of the island.”

“There's a silver lining though,” Jalabhar noted and lifted what looked like a damp blanket with his oar. “If this is the place I saw after we were washed ashore we can't be far from our campsite.” He spread the blanket out on the ground and began looking through the contents of the crate he had taken it from. “The terrain looks less rough in the northern direction. I'd wager our fire is just behind those tall boulders, and we won't have to carry the wood far if we find a way through.”

“Ever the optimist.” Thoros sighed and began inspecting crates and barrels for useful tools and supplies. “You're probably not even joking when you talk about taking your throne back one day.”

Jalabhar dropped a metal pot or bowl on his blanket and opened the barrel next to him with a quick twist of his dagger. “Of course I'll reclaim my kingdom one day,” he sharply replied. “I admit I don't know how I'll accomplish it, but the thought of giving up never once crossed my mind.” He removed the lid and peered into the barrel, wrinkled his nose, then moved on to a damaged chest a few steps away.

After finding the crates empty and one barrel filled with a disgusting sludge of seawater and lumpy flour Thoros wandered toward the next best piece of debris. “If you can't come up with a plan you could declare yourself king of this island,” he suggested. “Nobody wants it, you'd rule forever, uncontested and...” He broke off and stopped short when he reached a long, heavy beam, one end in the surf, the other extending halfway to the mountain. “There's blood on the ground here,” he plainly said. “And blood-soaked rags, looks like someone made a bandage from the torn sleeve of a shirt.”

Jalabhar was with him in an instant and once he had seen Thoros' findings he looked around on the shingle beach. “Is anyone here?” he shouted out to the mountain, then listened closely through the wind and the rushing of waves. No answer came, and Jalabhar tried again, this time louder, but again it was to no avail. “We would have seen survivors on our way,” he turned back to Thoros. “Whoever made it to shore must have gone in the other direction. Perhaps he saw the fire or heard us speak just before we left to scout out the island!” Without waiting for a reply, Jalabhar rushed back to his blanket, wrapped up the few useful things he had found, and headed toward the boulders behind which he suspected the camp.

 

When they reached the boulders there was indeed a passage, a natural arch extending from the piled up rocks to the face of the mountain. Planks and a smashed crate lay on the ground, and the debris had been moved away from the opening. The other survivor had come this way, and he had still had the strength to clear his path. Jalabhar called out again, received no reply once more, and briskly proceeded through the narrow passage under the rocky arch.

Thoros followed him, and was greeted by a somewhat familiar sight on the other side of the boulders. He had seen this rock formation with the thorny shrub perched atop when it had only been an outline in the dim light of dawn. The shape was recognizable though, a long, winding ridge resembling the dorsal fin of a sailfish, with black vines protruding from its highest point. The fire had to be right behind it, but it was not important, not now. What mattered was Danyal standing beyond the ridge, his back turned to their position, staring out to the sea. He wasn't wearing his cape and the sleeves of his shirt were blood-stained and tattered, and he didn't react when Jalabhar and Thoros cried out his name with one voice.

They rushed closer, around the ridge and toward him and the fire, but once they could see the flames they both abruptly stopped. Jalabhar's blanket fell, the pot clanked as it hit the hard ground, but nobody paid any attention. Thoros' heart sank when he saw Danyal's cape a few steps away from the fire, covering the shape of a body and stained with patches of dark, red blood. “Danyal!” he got out in shock and fear. “Tell me that isn't...” He didn't get further, the words got stuck in his too tight throat when the realization set in, as brutal as sudden. All lessons in chivalry considered, Danyal wouldn't have bothered trying to save one of the sailors.

The wind stopped, and even the sea seemed to fall silent when Thoros sank to his knees, crawled toward the cape and then just sat there, the whole world cold and lifeless in his arms. 


	15. The Fire Within

Jalabhar, Danyal, the rocky beach, the valiantly crackling fire, it all faded away when Thoros pulled back the cape. Now it all lay behind thick walls of quiet insignificance, the whole world beyond it was as desolate and empty as the temple of a long forgotten god. At first Thoros' chest felt heavy, his hands shaking and his throat constricted when he saw Beric's face. Then his vision became hazy, the dried blood on Beric's head, his closed eyes, the deathly pallor of his cold skin, it all blurred before Thoros' eyes, and there was only a crushing feeling of numbness.

“I tried,” he heard Danyal's voice like from far away, echoing with the same numbness and catatonia that had swallowed the world. “The mast... It crashed into the cabin just when I got there, then the wave washed over the deck and I had no time to think.” There was a pause, maybe a few heartbeats long, maybe hours, weeks, eons, what did it matter. “Somehow I got hold of his arm before the next wave dragged us over board. Can't say how long we've been under water, when or where we emerged. The storm was still raging and I had no orientation, all I saw was a beam drifting nearby, so I grabbed it to keep us afloat.”

Jalabhar said something, but Thoros couldn't make out any words, they faded into the vast tristesse of the world.

“Only noticed the blood when we were washed ashore,” Danyal answered the unheard question. “Figured it happened when the mast came down on the cabin, that it knocked him out and he'd just have a nasty headache later.” The light left the world as he spoke, and the wind picked up, as if to sweep the last echoes from this world away into nothingness. “So I picked him up and went to find shelter,” Danyal continued, uninflected. “Went toward the mountain in search of a cavern, and finally found a passage through the boulders in the first light of day. Then I saw the fire and knew there had to be other survivors. Decided to wait there for them, and for him to wake up.” Another pause, maybe Jalabhar asked another question, maybe Danyal didn't have to be asked. “That's when I realized he wasn't breathing,” he plainly said. “But it didn't feel right to leave his body and search the island by myself, so I just waited here for whatever may come.”

Silence fell and the weakening light of the afternoon sun was further mitigated by emerging clouds in the west. Someone said something about it, about another storm rising, about seeking shelter, but Thoros didn't listen or care. All that mattered in this world lay dead in his arms. What else was there for another tempest to take? A distant voice, Danyal's most likely, came closer now, but through the catatonic fog in his mind Thoros only made out the word 'cave'. Hands grabbed him under the arms, dragged him up from his kneeling position, and he couldn't find the strength or will to resist.

 

At first it was dark in the cavern Thoros found himself in, then the erratic flickering of fire cast a dim light against the rough walls. Jalabhar and Danyal were talking, one of them must have put the low-burning piece of wood down on the ground. Though the cave was too small for their voices to echo Thoros couldn't make out what they said. His gaze was fixed on Beric's dead body across from him, barely discernible in the murky light. On the closed eyes that just wouldn't open, on the lips that just wouldn't draw breath, on the arms crossed over his chest that just wouldn't move.

“They stand vigil,” Thoros heard Danyal say, a hesitant answer to another unheard question. “I don't know what customs are followed at Blackhaven though, what prayers are said or what happens after the vigil.” The sounds of the howling wind and crashing waves swallowed the words, or Danyal didn't elaborate further, it was hard to tell.

“How would we do that?” Jalabhar's question suggested Danyal had said more than Thoros had heard. “We might be stuck on this island for a long time, and any way to achieve that strikes me as disrespectful.” He made a few steps into the cavern and looked around in the semi-darkness. “It isn't the Sept of Baelor, but it resembles a crypt. I imagine his kin would rather have him rest here, undisturbed and sheltered from the weather.”

For a while there was silence, then Danyal replied, enough doubt in his voice for Thoros to notice. “If pirates are our best hope for rescue, as you say, you're probably right. I've met enough of them to know they don't care about funeral customs of knights and nobles.” He paused and looked to Jalabhar further back in the cavern. “If we'll be rescued at all, if we live to tell his kin what happened, laying him to rest here will give them more peace than learning that pirates cast his bones into the sea.”

It was quiet again, except for the wind and the waves, and it took Thoros a moment until he realized both Danyal and Jalabhar were looking at him. “You've known Beric and his father for many years,” Jalabhar began when Thoros didn't answer and just stared up to him with vacant eyes. “Would this be what they...” He didn't get further.

“A pyre,” Thoros plainly cut him off, and Jalabhar exchanged a stumped glance with Danyal. “Beric wouldn't want to be trapped in a cavern,” Thoros added. “We can't leave him outside under the open sky, exposed to the elements. But we can scatter his ashes over the waves, let his soul travel as he always wanted.” He slumped back against the cave wall, as if the words had robbed him of his last strength. “Let him find peace, even if we are doomed to perish on this fucking island.”

Outside there was a crashing of thunder, and the howling and whistling grew louder as the wind turned into a storm. Thick, black clouds, looming on the horizon like a massive column of smoke, could be seen through the cavern's entrance, and the storm whirled the thorny vines on the ridge up into the air. “We'll gather wood,” Danyal finally said, glancing to Jalabhar who slightly nodded. “The wreckage and the barrel you found, all we can carry. And we better hurry before the storm claims it.”

“Don't hurry too much,” Thoros quietly said when they turned to leave. “Give me a moment to say farewell by myself, try to remember the last rites they taught me back in the temple.”

 

Their steps merged with the sounds of the sky and the sea when Danyal and Jalabhar left, and Thoros was alone in the cavern, alone in the world. He took a deep breath and moved away from the wall, to the other side of the cave, and sank back to his knees when he reached Beric's body. Most of the dried blood had crumbled away, and the remaining clots clung like sooth to strands of golden-blond hair. The dim light from the fire was deceptive. Its warm, orange aura belied the deathly pallor, and the flickering played tricks on Beric's face, made it seem like his eyelids were moving in a peaceful dream. Only when Thoros touched his skin he felt the broken promise of youth, the cold, the absence of life, the unbearable truth.

Another deep breath, another glance to the fire, then Thoros leaned over Beric and paused before he mumbled the first words of a prayer. The language he hadn't spoken in years felt strange on his tongue, every whispered word sounded foreign, as if it belonged into an old book and had never been meant to be said out loud. But what did it matter? What god was there to care if he muttered the verses correctly or in the right order? This was no performance to please some imagined 'higher power', it was a half-remembered way of showing respect, of saying goodbye.

The emptiness and dread of the whole world washed over him when Thoros inhaled the meager heat of the fire, leaned down for the last kiss and breathed flames down Beric's throat. _Why?_ he thought as he closed his eyes in defeat, and for one heartbeat there was perfect darkness and silence.

 _So you will find me_ , a voice from within the absence of light gave the answer he hadn't ever expected. It was only a whisper through the sounds of the wind and the sea, the timbre neither a man nor a woman, but Thoros had unmistakably heard words nonetheless.

Confused, he opened his eyes and immediately froze when he stared into the reflection of fire, blazing brightly in Beric's wide open eyes.

 

“I lost it,” Thoros muttered under his breath. “It was too much, my mind broke, this can't be real...” He trailed off, wanted to turn his head and look to the entrance or the fire, find something real, an anchor to pull himself back from the compelling delusion. But he found himself unable to move, and so he kept staring down into the vivid flames dancing in Beric's blue eyes.

“Why is it so cold?” A quiet, hoarse whisper, but it was Beric's voice. “Has winter come yet? I don't recall it being this cold...”

“No,” Thoros got out. “No, no, no...” He shook his head, first slowly, then stronger, as if to shake off the madness that had possessed him. This had to be in his head, wishful thinking, hoping against hope, reading too much into the sounds of the wind and the waves. “It can't be real, as much as I wish it was, but I know you are dead, this is my mind playing cruel tricks...” And yet it was so convincing and Thoros wanted to believe it so much, or if it was a dream he didn't want to stop dreaming.

“Dead?” Beric sounded more lucid now, almost thoughtful. “Who is dead?”

Thoros managed to heave himself up to a kneeling position, but the new perspective didn't sweep the illusions away. Beric's eyes were open and he appraisingly regarded his surroundings, evidently confused by the rock walls above him and trying to figure out where he was. He drew breath, and the slow, regular movements of his chest were not a trick caused by the flickering fire, not this time. “You are dead,” Thoros whispered his answer, almost ready to give in and embrace the comforting madness. “You drowned when the ship sank on the way to Myr.” He reached out to brush the dried blood out of Beric's hair, a covert last attempt at resisting the temptation and snap back to reality, but instead he found the illusion was either perfect or no illusion at all. Beric's skin was still cold, but it wasn't the chill of death clinging to him. It was the cold of someone who had been outside in a winter night and just sat down by the hearth to warm himself up.

Beric pondered this information for a moment, then he moved, slightly turned his head and looked up to Thoros. “Are you dead as well?” he inquired. His voice carried doubt and his brow furrowed in thought at his own question. “If this is the afterlife why are we in the same place despite praying to different gods?”

 _Am I dead as well?_ Thoros wondered, going through the events he remembered since he woke up on this island in his mind. All evidence pointed to the contrary though. He recalled the ship rocking, the crash when it had rammed the offshore monoliths that still held onto to the sails. He felt the laborious exploration of the island in his bones, smelled the salt of the sea in his hair, his beard, and his clothes. The wreckage scattered along the shore had been real, as was the captain's body, and the leaking dinghy he had seen the sailors fight over the night before. “I don't think so,” Thoros slowly said, still uncertain how to address the second question, if at all.

“How can you talk to me if you're alive and I'm not?” Beric added to Thoros' confusion, abruptly lifted his hand and regarded it for a moment. “I'm not a ghost,” he then plainly noted. After staring at his hand for a short while he quickly reached out and grabbed Thoros' arm, apparently to make sure the conclusion about his non-spectral state was correct.

“No, you are not,” Thoros got out, staring down to where Beric's hand clutched his arm. Though the grasp was weak it felt like the full force of reality was behind it, and the touch ignited an incontrovertible realization in Thoros. It was no illusion, no desperate dream. It was real, Beric was alive, however impossible it had seemed. Awoken from his trance, Thoros hurried to tear the cloak off his shoulders, and lift Beric enough to wrap him into it. “You're not a ghost, you're not dead, but you're cold enough to be either,” he hastily muttered, and pulled Beric closer against his chest in a tight embrace.

 

Beric returned the hug, though he was slow to wrap his arms around Thoros. The rigidity of his limbs betrayed that death had not been an illusion either, but it was fading and life now reclaimed his body. For a while it was quiet and despite the lingering aftereffects Beric managed to rest his head on Thoros' shoulder. “Where are we?” he finally broke the silence, mumbling the question into Thoros' collar. “And where is everyone else? Are we all alone here?”

“The Ragged Teeth,” Thoros answered, followed by a deep sigh. “The largest one of the Bowbiter Islands.” He paused, absently placed a kiss on Beric's head and stared to the small fire. “Could be worse, I suppose. We could have been stranded on one of the smaller islands. Or the storm could have separated us with no way of reaching the others.”

“Others?” Beric tried to lift his head, but Thoros' tight hug barely let him room to move. “So we are not alone?”

“Jalabhar and Danyal are outside,” Thoros gave back. “They went to gather wood for...” He paused and adjusted the cloak around Beric's shoulders. “...your pyre.” For a while there was only the crackling of the fire, the rushing of distant waves and the storm howling between the sharp edges of the cliffs outside the cavern. “We also found the captain,” Thoros then changed the strange subject. “Dead, washed ashore on the far side of the island. There's plenty of wreckage on the beaches, but we didn't find any other survivors.”

Beric thought about that for a moment, and having regained control of his legs he inched closer and curled up under the cloak. “Dead...” he echoed, apparently still pondering the word and not paying attention to what else Thoros had said. “I was dead and now I'm not anymore... How is that possible?” He looked up to Thoros who was stuck for an answer and therefore only slightly shrugged in response.

 

A sudden rumble startled Thoros, made him flinch and instinctively tighten his arms around Beric. The noise was as loud as thunder, but it was too dull, too nearby to come from outside the cavern. When Thoros looked up he saw Jalabhar stand in the entrance, a pile of planks and other small pieces of wood scattered by his feet. “I understand your pain, and I know grief can make men act rather strangely,” he began and made a cautious step toward Thoros, but immediately jumped back when he saw Beric's hand move. “What in the world...?” he got out, blankly staring at the impossible scene playing out right before his eyes.

“I don't know what happened,” Thoros tried to explain when he had somewhat regained his composure. “The last rites, I performed them the way I remembered, then I suddenly heard a voice and his eyes were no longer closed... I saw fire in them, but it was not a reflection, it was...” He broke off, struggling for words that would describe what he had seen for one brief moment. “A flame, blazing and roaring, as if a candle was braving a storm. Not calm and low-burning like that...” He glanced to the plank, by now barely casting enough light to make out the shape of the cavern. “He wasn't even facing that direction, I can't explain where it came from...”

To Jalabhar's further shock and amazement Beric nodded against Thoros' shoulder. “Aye, it was like seeing a lighthouse on the shores of eternal darkness and night.” Thoros instantly looked back down to him, baffled and speechless, even more so when Beric quietly continued. “I've had bad dreams before, but none was ever as terrifying as this one. I couldn't see any dangers or monsters, but I felt an overwhelming sense of terror and dread, a darkness coming from all around me. Then I saw this light in the distance... It was calling me, guiding me out of the night.” He lifted his head just enough to see who he was talking to, and he seemed puzzled when he spotted Jalabhar by the entrance. “I left the board in King's Landing,” he then added, conjuring up even more confusion than there had been before. “We'll have to buy one in Myr if we want to practice.”

“The board?” Jalabhar repeated as he slowly came closer. He hunkered down next to Beric and inspected him with furrowed brows.

“It was in the saddlebag,” Beric said as if he was making perfect sense and not lacking context. “The guards took my horse back to Blackhaven. I should have taken the board to pass the time on the ship.”

“The cyvasse board,” Thoros helped, though he was just as puzzled as Jalabhar by the sudden change to this subject. His hand carefully brushed over Beric's head, the spot where the blood had been and a bump had now taken its place. “I don't know how I saw an afterimage of a nightmare or dream,” Thoros turned back to Jalabhar and the previous topic. “But it was exactly like that, a bright flame in deep darkness.”

Jalabhar regarded him for a long moment, with a curiosity as if he saw Thoros for the very first time. “You don't know?” he asked, an undertone of disbelief in his voice. “You are a priest, though you may often forget it. And there was a flame after you performed the last rites of the Red God. Doesn't that remind you of something we were told not too long ago?” He put a firm hand on Thoros' free shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “Miracles performed by red priests all over Essos. That's what Lord Stannis was concerned about, why he sent us on this voyage in the first place.”

“I'm a miracle,” Beric noted, apparently amused by the half-heard notion as he quietly giggled into the fabric of the cloak.

Bewildered, Thoros glanced down to him, then his gaze wandered back up to Jalabhar. “I didn't think there was anything to these rumors,” he absently replied, recalling the voice he had heard just before Beric had come back to life. _So you will find me._ The words echoed in Thoros' head, their sound so distant yet so full of clarity and conviction. Was that really the Red God's way of reminding his wayward priest of his purpose? R'hllor had never spoken in visions, had only shown hazy pictures in dancing flames, and Thoros had rarely been sober enough for an interpretation. As far as he had been concerned the images hadn't been visions at all, unless it counted if they had been sent by mundane, tasty spirits. The correlation Jalabhar now laid out wasn't absurd, all things considered, but if it was true it also opened up as many questions as it answered.

“It would appear the rumors are facts rather than fiction.” Jalabhar got up, went the few steps back to the entrance and began gathering the planks he had dropped. “This should see us through the storm, now that we won't need a pyre,” he said. “You feed the fire, I'll go and find Danyal.” He handed Thoros some of the wood and left the cavern.

 

“I want to go outside, too.” Beric let go of Thoros and made a brazen attempt at escaping the embrace and the cloak, but he didn't get far. Thoros had thrown the wood onto the fire and now quickly wrapped his arm back around Beric to hold him down.

“I don't think that's a good idea in your condition,” he said. “There's a storm brewing out there, and you're cold enough as it is.” He pulled the cloak back over Beric's shoulders without relinquishing his grasp. “We'd better wait it out in this cavern and see that you get some rest.”

Stubbornly, Beric shook the cloak off again. “I'm not that cold anymore,” he gave back. “And I don't want rest, I want to see where we are.” The flames licked the wood Thoros had added, burning high enough now to reveal a pout on Beric's lips. “I like being on islands.” Now he sounded sulky and defiant, as if having an attitude about it would change Thoros' mind.

“Let him have a look.” Jalabhar's head appeared in the entrance, then one arm followed, setting down the bowl he had taken from the beach on the ground. It was half-covered with the crumpled up blanket, underneath Thoros could make out stacked lumps that were probably the cured meat from the barrel they had earlier discovered. “There isn't much to see out here anyway.” Jalabhar placed his oar shaft against the cave wall and regarded Beric for a moment. “And maybe it's easier for Danyal to wrap his mind around the recovery that way. As opposed to him thinking you're clutching a corpse that starts moving all of a sudden.”

Beric immediately made a new attempt at escaping the grasp, and this time Thoros didn't try to hold him back. With a resigned sigh he helped Beric get up and offered support when he slowly led him to the entrance. Though he was still shaky on his legs Beric was also determined. He clung to Thoros' shoulder and arm, barely keeping his balance, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the opening in the cave's wall. Perhaps, Thoros thought, this wasn't such a bad idea. The cool air would help clear Beric's mind, and once he realized how cold it was outside he might want to go back to the cavern and stay by the fire without resistance and pouting.

 

Jalabhar was already outside, shoving the empty barrel away from the cavern and toward the fire, still braving the wind that swept over the island. The sky had darkened considerably, a thick blanket of puffy, steel-grey clouds obscured the sun and seemed to touch the horizon in every direction. “There's our silver lining,” Jalabhar noted as he stepped away from the barrel. “Those clouds should bring us more drinkable water than one barrel can hold.” He nodded to some heavy, round rocks near the sailfish-shaped ridge. “We should weigh it down though, so the storm won't knock it over.”

“You stay here.” Thoros sat Beric down on the ridge, then grabbed Danyal's stained cape from the ground and threw it over Beric's shoulders. “There's not much to see here and we better take things slowly, you hear me?” Beric nodded, though he seemed to disagree with the notion. His gaze wandered across the bleak landscape of the barren beach, the jagged rock formations, and the defiant fire with fascination, but he didn't try to get up, and that was good enough for Thoros. “Where did Danyal go?” he turned to Jalabhar as they lifted the largest of the round rocks and carried it the few steps to their barrel.

“Through the arch,” Jalabhar answered and nodded over his shoulder. “Careful, don't drop it yet or we'll knock a hole in the bottom!” They balanced the rock on the barrel's edge, carefully tilted it, then let the rock slide down. “Maybe we should get another one.” Jalabhar appraisingly regarded the barrel once they had moved it back to its upright position. “Who knows when we'll get another chance to collect water?”

“We probably should,” Thoros agreed, but he didn't get further. The banging of wood hitting stone cut him off, and he and Jalabhar turned around to the rock archway. Danyal stood there, some planks still on his arms, and stared to the fire in utter bewilderment. From his position he shouldn't have been able to see Beric on the ridge, but since he clearly saw something Thoros' gaze wandered there.

 

Beric had not stayed on the ridge, though he hadn't ventured too far from it. He had wandered to the fire, and now he was tumbling around it in vague circles, his tattered cloak streaming behind him like the wings of a giant moth. Thoros rushed back to him, grabbed Beric around the waist and pulled him away from the fire. The last thing they needed was him falling into it, and his evident lack of balance made that only a matter of time. Beric seemed confused for a moment once Thoros had caught him, but he didn't protest when he was led toward the cave.

“It's cold here,” he informed Thoros matter-of-factly. “I don't like the cold.”

“Hate to say it, but I told you so and you didn't listen,” Thoros gave back. From the corner of his eye he saw Jalabhar by the arch, quietly talking to Danyal whose blank stare now followed Beric to the cavern. “And it will only get worse out here,” Thoros added. “We better sit out the storm in our shelter and...”

“I don't want to be burned on a pyre.” Beric, hanging with one arm on Thoros' shoulder, abruptly stopped just a few steps away from the entrance. Before Thoros had a chance to react Beric leaned around him and waved Danyal over while yelling to him as loud as he could. “The warlock is trying to burn me! Help! Defend your lord! You must stop him, that's an order!”

“Oh, Lord,” Thoros muttered under his breath, unable to hold back an incredulous chuckle at the absurdity of Beric's sudden assumption. “Did you restore my faith only to now test my patience?” He grabbed Beric with both arms and tried to heave him back into an upright position. “I'm not a warlock and I'm not trying to sacrifice you,” he said as firmly as possible with Beric's weight hanging on his neck. “You almost fell into the fire, I pulled you away. Why would I do that if I was trying to burn you?”

To his surprise, the simple logic fell onto fertile ground. Beric paused, appraisingly regarded Thoros from his hanging position and apparently came to the conclusion that he didn't pose any danger. He furtively glanced to Danyal and Jalabhar, then to the cave and finally back to Thoros. “It is warm in there, isn't it?” Thoros nodded and Beric didn't wait for more of an answer, he let go of Thoros' neck and resumed the way to the cave.

Once inside Beric stumbled toward the fire, sat down next to it and quickly grabbed Thoros' cloak from the floor. Apparently the brazen theft he had accomplished amused him, he roguishly smiled as he draped the cloak over his legs and shot a daring glance up to Thoros. “I will keep this for now,” he said and began rubbing his hands together near the fire. “And you can do nothing about it if you're not a warlock.”

“Even if I was a warlock I'd let you have it.” Thoros ruffled Beric's hair, sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulder. “Though I suppose we wouldn't be stuck on this island if I had magic powers...”

“You're calling _that_ 'not having magic powers'?” That was Danyal's voice from the entrance and it sounded utterly baffled. “If you can defy death by mundane means I'll need even more of an explanation than I thought.” 


	16. High Tide

The rain came down in torrents and crashing of waves could be heard even through the loud patter on the hard rocks outside. The cavern, in stark contrast, was rather cozy. The narrow entrance provided shelter from the rage of the weather, and the crackling fire filled the room with warmth and a golden glow.

While Jalabhar explained what had transpired to Danyal in more detail, Beric furtively watched them across the flickering fire. “Something isn't right here,” he whispered to Thoros after inching some closer, apparently making an effort to conceal his conclusion from their companions. Danyal either didn't hear it or he paid no attention. He was listening to Jalabhar while carving a lump of cured meat with his dagger, and placed the slices on top of the bowl standing between them. “I don't think he's a real knight,” Beric quietly added with an air of importance. “He's good at pretending to be one, but I see through his charade.”

Thoros raised his eyebrows, but he knowingly nodded and ran his hand through Beric's hair. “We shouldn't tell him that we figured him out though,” he whispered back. “He might take offense, and there's no need to argue. After all, he's the one who pulled you out of the ocean. I'd say for the moment that's knightly enough.”

Beric seemed satisfied with that answer. He nodded, rested his head on Thoros' shoulder and returned to his silent observation. The whole situation was confusing, and telling him that he had knighted Danyal himself would only make it worse. For now playing along and giving him some time to recover was the best course of action. The memory would come back to him soon enough.

“...and the Red God answered his prayer,” Jalabhar came to an end of his recount. “When I entered the cavern Beric was alive and perfectly fine.”

“I wouldn't say _perfectly_ fine,” Thoros interjected. “His mind seems a bit jumbled, he just accused me of witchcraft. And...”

“That might be an aftereffect of hitting his head.” Jalabhar took a slice of meat from the bowl and inspected it from all sides. “He remembers who he is and who we are, generally speaking. He talks to us, he can walk, he's warm and breathing. All things considered, that's not bad for having been dead.”

Thoros' brow furrowed in thought and his hand hovered over the bowl instead of taking some meat. “Wait, is that why you took his side when he wanted to go see the island? As a test to find out what abilities were restored?”

Jalabhar shrugged and took a bite from the tough, dry meat. “Of course,” he gave back, now chewing. “We were tasked with finding out more about the 'miracles' that were reported to Stannis. The extend of your newfound powers should be our first step.”

Before Thoros could answer the bowl was pulled away under his hand. “Our first step should be finding a way off this island,” Danyal noted and poured the rubbery meat onto the blanket. “None of us will report a thing back to Stannis as long as we're sitting here, stuck with this.” He got up from the floor and went to the entrance, then held the empty bowl out into the rain. “Maybe we should sacrifice some of it to this Red God of yours,” he added, nodding to the meat and looking to Thoros. “If he answered one prayer we might entice him to send us another. A ship is a small thing to ask for compared to returning people from death.”

“It's a completely different thing though,” Jalabhar said. “What we should do is recover the dead captain. See if Thoros can restore his life as well.” He took another bite from the slice in his hand and moved the pile on the blanket closer to Thoros.

Instead of taking some of the food Thoros just blankly stared at him and didn't answer. Danyal, on the other hand, immediately reacted and said out loud what went through Thoros' mind. “Are you insane?” he turned to Jalabhar and pulled the bowl back inside. “What if it works, what if he comes back to life? We'd have another mouth to feed with our meager supplies.” He returned to the fire and set down the bowl, half-filled with water. “A mouth belonging to the dimwit who got us here in the first place, and was a stranger to moderation to boot.”

“But we'd have something to tell Stannis,” Jalabhar countered. “We are much closer to the shores of Essos than to King's Landing. Odds are any ship that might find us departed from Tyrosh or Myr and won't turn around to take us there. I'd rather not return to the Red Keep empty-handed.” The last bit of the meat disappeared in his mouth and he reached for the bowl to wash it down with some water. “A sacrifice would cost us supplies as well,” he noted after drinking some sips. “And it's more likely we'll be rescued without divine intervention than the captain returning to life without it.”

“Gods are all-seeing,” Danyal firmly gave back. “They don't take, we give to them in gratitude. That's the point of a sacrifice. We get to decide how much we offer. The greedy chump of a captain would neither care how much we can part with nor am I particularly grateful to him.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might not be keen on kissing the bloated corpse of a stranger?” Thoros finally got out. “If the storm hasn't thrown him back into the sea by now he's still soaking face down in the water. And he has been there since dawn, if not longer. Maybe it makes me a bad priest, or I'm just out of practice, but I wouldn't try to bring the man back even if I knew how.” He snatched a slice of meat and held it under Beric's nose, then turned back to Danyal and Jalabhar when Beric had taken it. “Which I don't,” Thoros added. “I'm not even sure I said the prayer correctly. Maybe I accidentally rearranged the words to sound like a forbidden incantation I shouldn't know. What would Stannis want with that insight? He didn't send us to Essos to find out that I don't know what I'm doing, he's already well-aware of that fact!”

“I don't want to be locked up in Lord Stannis' dungeon.” Beric turned the piece of meat in his hand and regarded it as if contained the answer to mystical secrets. “I know what people do with things they don't understand, Maester Jeon told me about it. He said there are strange beasts in the Citadel, the maesters put them in cages for their studies. I don't want to be in a cage because I'm magical now.” All eyes rested on him, slightly puzzled, but nobody interrupted. “The Red God brought me back from the dreadful darkness and cold,” Beric continued after a moment of silence, then he flung the meat into the fire with one swift, unexpected motion. “It's only chivalrous if we give him something in return.”

“He has a point,” Danyal said as they watched the meat curl and char in the flames. “As do you.” He looked to Thoros. “Maybe you did accidentally tap into forbidden knowledge. And maybe Lord Stannis' concern about the events in Essos makes him cautious enough to lock a dead man walking away for investigation. We should be careful who we share our knowledge with. Keep it to ourselves until we learn more about the nature of these 'miracles' and your ability to call upon divine aid.”

Beric glanced up to Thoros with a triumphant smile on his lips. “Maybe I will knight him later,” he whispered, though the words were not as hushed as intended.

This time the remark didn't go unnoticed by Danyal, but he only chuckled and exchanged an amused glance with Thoros. “Our lord looks exhausted,” he said and reached for his cape, meanwhile dried by the flames. “Jalabhar and I will take turns watching the fire while you two get some rest. Can't say I'm not willing to work for my knighthood.” He got up, threw the cape in Beric's direction and regarded Jalabhar with a quizzical expression. “Are we in agreement then? We won't drag the dead captain out of the water, and we will keep this miracle to ourselves?”

Jalabhar nodded and followed Danyal to the wall across from the entrance. “It's Thoros' decision and he said he won't try it.” He sat down on their stack of planks and driftwood and leaned back against the rocky wall with a sigh. “I only hope the 'sacrifice' really earned us the Red God's favor. If I was a god I don't think some dried pork would convince me.”

“He's afraid of your powers.” Beric quietly laughed and crawled closer to Thoros and under the cape. “He knows they are bestowed upon you by the One True God, and that men should never defy his divine will.”

“I've never known him to shut up out of cowardice,” Thoros gave back with a chuckle and draped Danyal's cape over them both. “I'd wager he simply saw reason and understood I don't like kissing wet corpses.” He put his arm around Beric and placed a kiss on the back of his head. “That's reserved for my fledgling,” he quietly added and pulled Beric closer, kept him warm, kept him safe, kept him in this world.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros awoke to rushed movements of torches and the frantic voices of Danyal and Jalabhar from the entrance. Next to him Beric was slowly waking up from his slumber as well, grumbling into Thoros' sleeve that he didn't like the loud chatter. It took Thoros a moment to recall why in the world he was in this cave, then the words he heard began making sense and he was very alert all of a sudden.

“It's not a mirage,” Danyal told Jalabhar. Apparently this was half an argument, half a discussion, with the point of contention being the question whether they should wake Thoros and Beric or not. “It looks hazy because of the fog bank and the drizzle, but if it was my imagination you couldn't see it as well.”

“Ships don't simply appear out of nowhere in the dead of the night,” Jalabhar gave back, hushed, but much too loud to truly count as a whisper. “If it's not our wishful thinking, sparked by the supposed sacrifice to R'hllor, we should be careful with our approach. It might be pirates, and they certainly didn't come here without a reason. We should...”

“It didn't appear out of nowhere,” Danyal cut him off. “We didn't see it before because we were sitting in a cavern and from in here the shore was was obscured by torrents of rain and the heavy storm.” A flame was moved quickly through the relative darkness, then Thoros heard Danyal speak again. “Take the fucking torch. I don't care if you stay here or come with me, but I'll try to signal them whether they're pirates or not. We're going to get on that ship, even if I have to strangle a hundred pirates to get off this forsaken island.”

The second light disappeared through the arched entrance, and Thoros could only make out Jalabhar's silhouette in the dark. “I like ships,” he heard Beric mutter, but right now he didn't have the mind to pay it any attention.

“Did he say there's a ship near this island?” he addressed Jalabhar and laboriously sat up next to Beric, leaving Danyal's cape draped over him.

“Sounds too good to be true, doesn't it?” Jalabhar replied from the short distance, holding the torch inside the cavern again to let Thoros see where he was. “It's not far offshore to the north, and it seems to be anchored. He spotted it after the rain ceased and he went outside to relieve himself. Might be the fog that makes it look so unreal, I admit that, but I don't know if I trust my perception.”

Thoros was on his feet in an instant and rushed to Jalabhar to take a look for himself. However, when he reached the entrance all he saw was Danyal's outline, carrying a torch toward the fog-shrouded shore. “I suppose it won't hurt if I join him,” Jalabhar said with a sigh. “If it's not a mirage he might need a hand with strangling all those pirates.” He handed the torch to Thoros, pulled the cape over his head and quickly followed Danyal outside through the drizzle.

 

“I don't like the darkness.” Thoros glanced over his shoulder and found Beric standing behind him, cowering against the wall where the firewood was stored on the floor. “I don't want to go out there again. The night is dark and full of terrors, isn't it?”

“Maybe full of pirates, if we're unlucky,” Thoros replied. “Other than that there's nothing to fear on this island.” The words failed to have the desired effect. Beric still looked terrified of the entrance, stayed as far away as he could by pressing himself back against the cave wall and held up part of his tattered cloak like a shield. “And if we're lucky it's a ship that will take us home,” Thoros tried to calm the black bundle of nerves down as he went closer.

Now Beric stopped staring at the torch and his expression turned into one of irritation. “We can't go home,” he said with surprising defiance. “We must go east as we were ordered.” He started fumbling around behind the cloak with his free hand, apparently patting down his belt in search of something. “I'll bribe the captain, so he'll take us to Myr,” he assured Thoros. “He strikes me as a man who'll do it for the right amount.”

“The crown covers our expanses,” Thoros replied. “Let Jalabhar handle this. He carries our money.” Beric stopped searching his purse and nodded, though he didn't seem completely convinced. “But we should keep an eye on him and Danyal,” Thoros suggested. He held his arm out and didn't wait long until this invitation was accepted. Beric grabbed him, and Thoros put the arm around his shoulders, then led him to the entrance step by step.

The torch mostly served to calm Beric's mind, by now Thoros' eyes had adjusted to the murky darkness. He could make out Danyal and Jalabhar, waving their torch from the slope of the shoreline, and behind them in the bleak fog bank the surreal shape of a ship. From this distance it was impossible to see what flag it was flying, but for a pirate ship the outline was much too bulky. “This _is_ too good to be true,” Thoros muttered to himself when he spotted a small boat rowing toward the island. Beric's curiosity won over caution for the moment. He carefully peeked around the corner to the nightly beach. His grasp around Thoros became tighter, but he didn't recoil and kept watching even when a gust of wind whipped the drizzle into his face.

 

There were three figures in the boat, two short and stocky, the other taller and lanky, which became evident once they left their dinghy in the shallow surf. When they approached Danyal and the shine of his torch cast light on their faces Thoros exhaled deeply with utter relief. The taller man had a bronze or olive complexion and curly, black hair, making it hard to guess where he hailed from, beyond a rough estimation that put his homelands 'somewhere in southern Essos'. His two short, barrel-chested companions with their scruffy beards and bushy eyebrows, however, were easy to place in the Known World. Thoros instantly recognized them as Ibbenese sailors, they looked just like the crews of whaling ships he had sometimes seen in the taverns near the Mud Gate. The big-bellied, bulky shape of their ship completed the picture, these were whalers or merchants, not pirates as Thoros had first feared.

One of the Ibbenese men was talking to Danyal, and when Thoros looked closely he realized the sailor was laughing. What amused him so much was lost to the wind and the rushing of the sea, but at least the new arrivals didn't seem to be hostile. A moment later Danyal joined the jolly laughter, gave the sailor a matey pat on the back and turned around to wave Thoros over. Jalabhar's reaction couldn't be seen. He was holding the torch and had his back turned to the cavern, but he clearly didn't find the situation alarming, as bizarre as it was.

“Come on, let's go to the ship.” Thoros gently tried to pull Beric away from the corner he hugged. His plan almost worked, but only almost. Beric looked up to him when he heard the word 'ship', but he was wary about stepping into the darkness. “Look, Jalabhar and Danyal are waiting for us,” Thoros tried it again. “They wouldn't be over there, laughing and chatting, if there was any danger.” Beric still didn't move and only furtively regarded him from the side. “You take the torch, then there'll be light wherever you're going.” Thoros offered the torch to Beric and it was immediately torn out of his hand.

“Now the Lord of Light can watch out for approaching terrors.” A brief, satisfied smile flashed over Beric's face and he left the cavern without further hesitation. “He'll keep them away from me. Stay close, so he can protect you as well.”

Thoros raised his eyebrows, but he followed him across the wet, rocky area, staying in the light of torch as he had been instructed on their way.

Beric had decided that the Red God was the One True God, that was not too surprising. After all, none of the Seven had made an appearance in his darkest hour, but a god he had never prayed to had saved him from death. Now he tried to piece together his newfound faith from half-remembered conversations he had overheard during festivals and tourneys in the past. Some of these things were not even true, Thoros had made them up on the fly to enhance certain spectacles or embellish his tales. 'Fire' was the one thing Beric knew pertained to his new god for certain, and that the night had to be feared for unexplained terrors lurking within. Considering his current condition and the quality of his past lessons it bordered on a miracle that he got this much right about the Red God. _I should really brush up on my lore in the temple_ , Thoros thought with an incredulous chuckle. _If he makes up his own faith because I lack the knowledge for a proper conversion I might not be the only one who accidentally mutters strange incantations..._

 

“I'm not saying 'I told you so', though I absolutely did,” Danyal welcomed them on the beach, clearly amused by the absurd situation. “If we had waited just one day longer in King's Landing we'd be sleeping in a comfortable cabin right now.”

“And though he's well-aware of the reasons for booking passage on the _First Daughter's Grace_ he won't let us forget that he had the better idea,” Jalabhar added, visibly relieved about not fighting pirates, yet equally resentful about Danyal's smug smile. “We'll be hearing about it for the rest of the journey, framed as 'wise foresight' instead of the incredible coincidence it really is. Those will be some long days until we reach Myr, I'm certain of it.”

Puzzled, Thoros looked back and forth between him and Danyal in hope of an explanation while Beric inspected the three strangers in the light of his torch. “These are sailors,” he unsurprisingly concluded his findings after circling them twice and stopping between Thoros and Jalabhar, presumably to stand closer to the second light source.

“We sure are,” the Ibbenese man they had seen laughing with Danyal confirmed, exposing a wide gap between his teeth with a smile. “Got a ship, with sails, rigging, cabins, masts and all.” He took a waterskin from his belt, opened it and took a pull from what was most certainly not water, judging by the strong, tangy scent. “I remember your friend,” he said in his thick, surly accent and offered the skin to Danyal. “Asked around for passage to the Free Cities, seemed to be in a hurry, but wouldn't say why.”

“Faith is a very private matter,” Danyal quickly claimed. “The Lord of Light is not as revered in Westeros as in the Free Cities, and some ardent followers of the Seven don't take too kindly to knights who want to convert.”

“Aye, you westerners are a strange people.” The Ibbenese men guffawed and nodded, the third man just shrugged. “Very concerned with those seven gods of yours, yet somehow nobody can fathom that there'd be even more.”

“The Red God is the One True God, there aren't any others,” Beric solemnly informed him. He was about to say more, but Danyal just stepped in front of him, nonchalantly drank a sip from the waterskin and gave it back to the sailor.

“He's a bit shaken from hitting his head,” he told the Ibbenese and their companion. “Recent convert as well, he's still rather zealous about it. I'm sure he'll mellow out once we've visited a Red Temple.”

The Ibbenese sailors nodded again, and the more talkative one put the skin back on his belt. “Aye, you easily find those in the Free Cities, but I've never seen one on your western shores.”

“There's one in...” the Essosi began, paused and furrowed his brow in thought. “Where the huge lighthouse welcomes ships to the harbor,” he gave up on recalling the name of the city. “And Yärl once told me he knew a red priestess in Dorne. Didn't say if they have temples there, but they might.”

The two Ibbenese men considered that for a moment, then they shrugged in unison and turned back to Danyal. “Bet the temple in Myr is bigger and better,” one of them said. “And now get in the boat, if that's all of you. Why stand around and chat in the drizzle if there's a perfectly good common room on the ship?”

 

They waded through the shallow water to the whaleboat, and once the torches illuminated it, a mishmash of harpoon parts, ropes, nets, and buckets could be seen under the benches. Beric didn't seem to trust the dark water, and Thoros really couldn't blame him for that, but he followed Jalabhar's torch without protest.

“The captain's going to be delighted,” the chatty Ibbenese man noted once everyone had taken a seat in the boat. “Always glad for the company and the tales passengers bring. He finds strange cultures like yours rather intriguing.”

“He's been lamenting the fact that our guest cabins are empty ever since we left Pentos,” the Essosi added. “It's the season, the autumn storms haunting the Narrow Sea. Fewer people are looking to travel, and at times it makes our voyages somewhat dull.”

The taciturn Ibbenese man and apparent navigator nodded, then furtively regarded the four castaways from head to toe. “None of you's a minstrel, I hope,” he grunted. His features relaxed when Thoros shook his head and a satisfied laughter trickled through the man's shaggy beard. “Good. We tried that once, hired one before the last winter. Ten days at sea, then every last man on the ship was sick of listening to the same handful of shanties. Lad was lucky we didn't throw him overboard.”

It was only owed to Thoros' quick reflexes that Beric didn't manage to stand up from his seat when the big-bellied ship emerged from the fog bank. He stared at the tall masts and the tar-black hull with shining eyes, and he didn't turn his gaze away when he leaned closer to Thoros. “We should book passage on that ship,” he whispered, his voice husky and awestruck. “It looks much more impressive than those we have seen before.”

Thoros chuckled to himself and put a kiss on Beric's temple. “It's a marvelous sight indeed,” he whispered back. _The Lord of Light isn't stingy with miracles these days_ , he thought to himself. _Could have send some Myrish pirates our way, but I'm certainly not complaining about his generosity._


	17. Valar Edruris

The man eyeing them up from behind a large desk when they entered the cabin looked like the hero of legends and shanties. There was no doubt about his Ibbenese heritage, his stocky, short stature and the bushy, grey-streaked black beard gave it away. He was chewing on what had to be blubber, and his dark brown leather coat was lined with short, rust-colored walrus fur. His interest in the new arrivals was shared by the brightly colored bird sitting on his shoulder. The parrot had the same rotund shape as its owner, but Thoros also noticed the resemblance with someone else in the cabin. Judging by Beric's quiet amusement he had come to the same conclusion, and he not so subtly looked back and forth between Jalabhar's cape and the bird.

“Algernon Yörb,” the man cheerfully introduced himself, visibly pleased about the unexpected company his crew had brought back from their late night excursion. “Welcome aboard the _Havalyr_! It's been twenty years since I picked up castaways from an island!”

“Yörb!” the parrot echoed in a squawking imitation, erecting its fiery red-yellow crest in apparent excitement.

“Aye, you're Yörb, too.” The captain passed the bird a nut from a bowl on the table, and waited until Jalabhar had introduced himself and his three companions. “So you're all that's left of the _First Daughter's Grace?_ ” Captain Yörb almost too casually inquired. “No other survivors, no cargo, nothing to salvage?”

“I'm afraid so,” Jalabhar replied. “We inspected the barrels the storm washed ashore on the island, there was nothing of value in any of them. And according to the crew's chatter the ship left King's Landing with an empty hold.”

“Perhaps better that way, considering their business,” Yörb muttered under his breath, then invitingly gestured toward the door of his cabin and got up from his chair. “You look like fancy people, my friends. Care to join me for a fancy midnight indulgence? Smoked eel, turnips and onions, and a good, strong mead from the Velvet Hills. It could use a pinch of engaging conversation and you must be starving after sitting on that rock all night and day.”

He briskly strode to the door and Beric, still watching the bird with enthralled fascination, followed him with the eagerness of a hound tracking prey. “This is a very jovial pirate,” he noted in a hushed tone once Thoros had caught up. “I don't understand why Jalabhar was worried about being attacked.”

“He means no offense,” Danyal quickly interjected from behind. “He's just confused. Hit his head and...”

“I've been called worse,” Captain Yörb brushed off the remark. “Can't even blame him for the assumption. Most ships that dare come close to these islands are pirates from Tyrosh and Myr.” He chuckled into his wiry beard and proceeded down the long hallway toward an arched door. “So many young captains lack passion these days, don't appreciate the sea for all its dangers and wonders. They buy ships as displays of status and wealth and stay in safe waters, not a clue what they're missing by never straying from beaten paths. These islands make excellent hideouts to wait out heavy seas, but those younkers get scared just by hearing the name.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The common room was larger than the one of the _First Daughter's Grace_ , which did not come as a surprise. More than twice the crewmen had to be accommodated due to the _Havalyr_ 's larger size. However, this late in the evening the room was almost empty. Only the three men who had taken the whaling boat to the island sat in a corner, drinking from tall mugs and playing a game of cards. There was rattling of pots and pans coming from a wooden hatch in the wall across from the door. The galley was visible through the opening, but the cook was busy somewhere out of view. Yörb went to the hatch and began talking through it in Ibbenese, sounding grunting and cheerful at the same time, while gesturing toward a nearby, long table.

Jalabhar and Danyal followed the invitation and sat down on one of the benches while Thoros stayed close to Beric. He wandered around, assessing his new surroundings, apparently decided they were to his liking and finally took a seat on the table as well. It didn't take long until Captain Yörb joined them, and to his guests' astonishment a heavyset woman was with him. At first glance she could have passed as the captain's twin sister, resembling him in age, height, stature and descent. She wore a soot-stained apron and carried a stack of plates that she calmly placed on the table, then said something in Ibbenese to which Yörb blithely nodded, and returned to the galley.

“Should have kept my mouth shut about the mead,” he turned to his baffled guests. “We don't have any left.” The parrot had turned its attention to Jalabhar again since the captain had taken a seat across from him. Now the bird jumped off his shoulder, splashed onto the table and waddled toward Jalabhar with surprising speed. “Got rum and black beer though,” Yörb continued, apparently not concerned about the escape of his feathered companion. “And I didn't promise too much when I mentioned the eel.”

“I like eel.” Beric still watched the bird, now standing in front of Jalabhar and wiggling its crest.

“Actually you don't,” Thoros dryly corrected. “You didn't want to try it when I offered you a bite at Blackbridge, and that was some really good eel.”

Beric paused and tore his gaze off the bird, then regarded Thoros for a moment. “Why not?” he asked, puzzled about this information.

“I don't know. Same reason I don't like chervil? I just can't stand the taste,” Thoros guessed. “Though I don't know if you ever tried it, I'm just fairly certain you never ordered it in a tavern or inn when I was around.”

“Bet none of you ever had eel the way we prepare it on Ib.” Yörb leaned to the side when the woman returned from the galley with a tray of tall mugs and put it down on the table. “Smoked over alder wood, seasoned with sea salt, black pepper and sprinkles of lemon. You haven't truly lived until you tried it.”

“I don't mean to be rude, I'm just bursting with curiosity. How come there's a woman serving on your ship?” Danyal hastily interjected before Beric could take the remark as a cue and bring up his resurrection. “I've heard sailors say having women on board brings bad luck, and evidently this superstition doesn't concern you.”

“Brother Iosefka, you mean?” Yörb nodded toward the galley. “Would be a fool to not bring him along, best cook I ever met on my journeys.”

“Brother...?” Jalabhar glanced to the kitchen and his voice carried the same confusion that was written in Danyal's face. “I can't claim to have met any Ibbenese women before, but frankly I'm rather certain there's one in your galley.”

The captain nonchalantly nodded again. “You know where the belief that women bring bad luck originated?” he asked. “The Andals, they came up with that nonsense long ago. Look around.” He demonstratively turned his head left and right and let his gaze wander through the room. “Not a single Andal on my ship, so how would their deities or demons ever know? There's nobody here to rat me out.” He looked back to Jalabhar, studied him for a moment, shook his head, then turned to Danyal, Thoros and Beric. “You don't worship those Andal gods, do you?”

“The Red God is the One True God,” Beric immediately replied with an air of importance. “Thoros is a red priest, not a warlock.”

“We're on the way to Myr to complete our conversion,” Danyal stepped in before Beric revealed the reason for his conviction, though it wasn't necessary this time as Beric's attention had returned to the bird.

“Good, good, then there won't be any bad luck on this journey,” Yörb said. The baffled expressions seemed to amuse him as he quietly laughed into his beard. “Sailors are a superstitious kind though,” he then added in a comically serious tone. “Can't be careful enough, so we say 'brother' or 'son' in case some nosy gods eavesdrop on us.” He grabbed a mug from the tray and raised it to a toast, and his guests took their drinks to answer the gesture.

The captain drank, then he chuckled again and hesitantly looked around on the table. Apparently he was eager to say something more about his cook's presence, but not sure whether strangers were the right audience for it. “I stole her,” he finally said with a mischievous smile under his mustache. “That's how pirates get their treasures, isn't it?” He winked at Beric who seemed confused for a moment, then simply went back to watching the bird.

Thoros laughed with the others, but he wasn't quite convinced the remark had been said in jest. Ibbenese, men and women alike, were highly priced by slavers with an eye toward the fighting pits of Meereen. Their natural strength and robustness made them excellent combatants, if slavers managed to catch and contain them, and that was rather rare. Perhaps, Thoros surmised, their rarity and accordingly high prices were also a result of their habit of liberating fellow countrymen and countrywomen who had somehow ended up on a slaver's chain.

'Brother' Iosefka reemerged from the galley, this time with two large trays filled with platters and bowls. Yörb scooped up his visibly excited parrot and put it back on his shoulder before she served the food, then he took a small silverskin onion from one of the bowls and gave it to his pet. “Yörb!” the bird proclaimed, took the offered onion with one foot and began nibbling on it, barely keeping its balance.

“You see that?” Yörb triumphantly smiled when he turned to Thoros. “He likes eel just fine if it's prepared the right way.” As surprising as it was, Thoros had to agree with this assessment when he looked to his left. Beric descended upon his plate like a starved vulture, devoured the eel and vegetables, and only paused to take a swig from the black beer. A night of rainwater and cured meat retrieved from drifting barrels had left everyone hungry, but Beric's zeal was impressive even with that in mind.

 

By the time the bowls and platters were empty, another aftereffect of their stay on the island made its presence known. Danyal and Jalabhar barely stifled their yawns, and though Thoros had napped a few hours in the cavern he could feel the sleepiness creep up in him now.

“Let me show you the cabins!” Yörb got up from the table while Iosefka gathered the plates and bowls on a tray, visibly pleased the unexpected guests had enjoyed the late night meal. “The change of seasons always means ebb tide for peoples' desire to travel, but sailors are filled with hope up to the nostrils, so we prepared the guest cabins either way.” He led the way back to the door and out to the hallway, lit by small, hanging oil lamps that swayed to and fro under the ceiling with the calm tide. Yörb was doubtlessly proud of the accommodations his ship offered and kept talking about the moderate comforts the cabins afforded his guests.

Neither Danyal nor Jalabhar really listened, both followed the captain in a drowsy trance and didn't care if the cabin had one or two windows as long as it only had something resembling a bed. Beric didn't combat fatigue, but he didn't pay attention to the conversation either. While still fascinated with the bird on Yörb's shoulder, he was also mesmerized by the swinging oil lamps and stopped every few steps to stare at them. The polite obligation of engaging in small talk fell to Thoros and though his eyelids were getting heavy as well, he didn't mind. R'hllor had answered the call for a ship in exchange for a slice of cured meat. Humoring its jovial owner late at night was a small price to pay.

“Had two swordsmen from Braavos in this one a few weeks ago,” Yörb narrated the history of the cabin behind the door he had opened. “Only stayed on board from Gulltown to King's Landing, but they did not have a single complaint.”

“I can see why,” Danyal muttered in a last ditch effort at polite conversation when Yörb shone the light of an oil lamp into the room. “It's more spacious than the Tyroshi's broom closet and looks quite cozy.”

“It's all yours, unless you'd rather stick together.” Yörb handed him the lamp and stepped aside to let Jalabhar and Thoros inspect the cabin as well. “I have one large enough for the four of you further down the hallway, but the windows are smaller and...”

“No, no, this will be fine,” Jalabhar interjected after exchanging a quick glance with Thoros, quietly urging him to not stand between him and the bed.

Thoros didn't care either way. There was no danger on this ship and splitting up didn't concern him, so he just shrugged and Jalabhar hurried to follow Danyal into the cabin. The door had just closed behind him when Beric returned from pondering a lamp on a nearby column. He eyes were instantly drawn back to the parrot, then he seemed to gather his thoughts and looked at the captain. “How much are you asking?” he inquired. “If the price is not too steep I will buy it.”

Yörb regarded him for a moment, then let out an incredulous chuckle. “You want to buy Yörb?” he asked, nodding to his pet. “I'm afraid he's not for sale.” The bird erected its fiery crest, maybe sensing it was the subject of this conversation, and appraisingly eyed Beric up and down. “Got him from a rum merchant in Ebonhead, a gift for many years of good business.”

“The ship,” Beric cleared up the misunderstanding. “I want to buy the ship. It is exactly what I've been looking for.”

Now a hint of concern crept into the captain's amusement. “The ship is not for sale either,” he answered, though Beric was already wandering off down the dimly lit hallway, as if following a butterfly only he could see. “How hard exactly did he hit his head?” Yörb turned to Thoros. “Seems like his brain got rattled quite a bit.”

“We'll be visiting the Red Temple in Myr,” Thoros said. “There'll be plenty of healers who can take a look at his condition.”

“We won't arrive in Myr for another five or six days,” Yörb gave back. “The weather might go either way, but if there's another storm like the one we braved yesterday we could be looking at seven or eight days at sea.” He thoughtfully watched Beric stagger up and down the long hallway, stopping under an oil lamp here and there and staring at it before moving on to the next. “My navigator has extensive knowledge of herbs, oils, and medicinal plants,” he continued, more hushed, though Beric was probably out of earshot by now. “Not quite the expertise you find in Red Temples, but it's enough for the bumps and bruises commonly sustained on a ship.”

“Your navigator..?” Thoros repeated, slightly puzzled.

Yörb nodded, absently pulled a dried fig out of his pocket and offered it to his pet. “Used to be some sort of sorcerer,” he said, not minding the bird dropping the treat to the floor after a brief inspection. “Had a comfortable life in Qohor, selling oils and ointments, and dabbling a little in spices as well. One day a customer found himself short on money and instead paid in the form of an old tome. Yinich became obsessed with it overnight, decided that studying the stars is his true calling, and went to sea.”

“Itch!” the parrot yelled. The dropped fig it had been regarding with great interest had suddenly lost all its appeal. “Itch!”

“You better keep your beak shut,” Yörb told the bird. “Last week you threw all his mosses and lichen on the floor, and Yinich really didn't like that at all.” He picked up the fig and gave it back to the parrot, then turned to Thoros again. “Maybe he can tell how badly your friend is injured. He's seen quite a few bumps in his time on my ship.”

Thoros' gaze followed Beric, still wandering around in circles under a dangling lamp. “I appreciate the offer, though I'm not sure herbs can do much about his condition,” he said after a short silence. “But perhaps there's one that can alleviate the headaches, if nothing else.”

Yörb nodded down the hallway. “You can see him right now,” he said. “Might help you get some rest, you look like you need it. Yinich has this tea, tastes nasty, but one cup could put a walrus to sleep.” He looked over to Beric who was now busy with one of the locked storage hatches in the middle of the hallway, seemingly puzzled why it wouldn't open. “Unless you're looking forward to a night of him rattling trunks and drawers with the zeal of a Volantene harbor inspector.”

“I'm certainly not,” Thoros gave back, stifling a yawn. “But your hospitality already exceeds all we could have hoped for. I wouldn't ask you to wake up your healer this late at night.”

“He's probably still staring at the sky through his Far Eyes,” Yörb brushed off the concern. “Bit of a night owl, that one.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I am _not_ a sorcerer.”

Urien Yinich seemed piqued at the captain's brief introduction and he didn't make a secret of it. As Yörb had suspected, his navigator had not been asleep, though he hadn't been occupied with his Far Eyes either. When they had entered the cabin he had been sitting behind a desk and studying a heavy tome in the shine of a lantern. Yörb had explained the situation, but quickly left under his parrot's loud protest when Yinich reproachfully glowered at the bird.

“I studied medicinal herbs, there's no magic to it.” Yinich arose from his chair and walked around the desk, revealing faded green robes and a tall, slender stature. With his clean-shaven head, sharply arched eyebrows and thin, braided beard he certainly looked like a sorcerer or mystic, as much as he evidently disliked the notion.

“That's a relief,” Thoros replied while trying to pull Beric away from a stack of rolled up maps or scrolls on a shelf by the door. “I trust good, old medicine more than spells when it comes to common ailments.” He glanced over the cabin walls, covered from floor to ceiling with sea charts, diagrams of star patterns, and illustrations of plants both familiar and entirely unknown. _I also prefer a herbalist to someone who juggles with mysterious forces_ , he added in thought. _Much less likely that a recent resurrection will be discovered._

Yinich eyed Beric up from head to toe, then nodded and moved a chair closer to the oil lamp on his desk. “Put him here,” he said, reached over the stacked books and charts on the table, and produced a small, bulbous kettle from the chaos. “And get a mug, they're in the trunk by the window.” He felt the metal container and sighed, put it back on the desk and turned to Thoros again. “Two mugs, I'll need one for myself,” he corrected, apparently annoyed by this realization. “Made the tea two hours ago and forgot I have to drink it. Always the same, always the same, but one day I'll remember...”

Beric put up no resistance when Thoros sat him down on the chair. A potted succulent plant on the desk had caught his attention and sitting near it allowed for a closer inspection of the thick, fleshy leaves. The distraction was enough to not be bothered by Yinich's examination of the bump, if Beric even noticed the hand on his head at all.

“This is the miracle tea the captain mentioned?” Thoros inquired when he returned with the mugs he had found in the trunk, among a collection of metal bowls, stone mortars and pestles, a variety of spoons and ladles, and empty flasks.

“It's not a _miracle_ ,” Yinich answered in a peeved tone. “It is the result of years of research and experimentation. I've always had this inconvenient habit of sleeping during the day and being active and alert in the night. Then I finally discovered a concoction that cured this pesky condition, and now I forget to drink it on time.” He slowly moved one finger from side to side in front of Beric's face and watched if his gaze followed the tip. “The hotter it is when you drink it the more potent is the tea's slumberous effect. At least your unexpected visit reminded me while it is still lukewarm. I often only notice the kettle when the tea is already cold because I was distracted by my studies.” He waited for Thoros to fill both mugs, then gave one to Beric who was enthralled by the plant again since Yinich had stopped waving his finger. “It should help him sleep though,” Yinich added and took a sip from his own mug. “As for the injury, it does not appear to be serious, nothing that caused lasting damage. There's nothing I can do about his confused state or the scattered memories, but both should wear off on its own.” He poured the rest of the tea down and went around his desk to open a drawer. “What I can do is bandage the wound, and apply herbs that reduce the swelling and pain.”

“I like this herb.” Beric absently sipped from the mug and regarded the succulent plant with amusement. “It is so spiky. I haven't seen herbs like this one before.”

“This is not a 'herb', strictly speaking.” Yinich returned to Beric with a handful of linen strips and a small box containing what looked like dried moss. “It grows on the Summer Islands, in hot and humid regions.” He paused, put the bandages and box on the desk, then broke off the pointy tip of one fleshy leaf of the plant. “It is said to have medicinal properties though. Hastens the healing of cuts and scratches. I'll add some to your bandage if you like it.” Beric immediately turned around and looked up to Yinich with shining eyes. Apparently he hadn't expected this reaction, or any reaction at all. “However, the juice of this plant will only take full effect overnight,” Yinich explained with an air of importance. “Best let your skin absorb it while you sleep, and lie still if you can.” Beric quickly nodded and cocked his head, eagerly waiting for the bandage to be applied.

Yinich shot a glance to Thoros while squeezing the leaf's juice onto the moss, then he began wrapping the bandage around Beric's head. “You're from Myr?” he casually asked in Valyrian, colored by the discordantly lilted accent of Qohor. “Do you both speak the old tongue then?” he inquired after Thoros had nodded.

“Only I do,” Thoros answered, speaking Valyrian, a bit puzzled why Yinich was suddenly curious about it. “One of my other companions does as well, but it's not his native tongue.”

Yinich pressed the moss onto Beric's bump and fastened it with another layer of linen wraps. “It makes no difference if he sleeps or runs around all night,” he said, looking to the squeezed tip of the succulent's leaf on the desk. “Some crewmen claim their bruises heal faster if they apply some of its juice, but I'm not convinced it does more than adding a pleasant scent to mosses and lichen.” Beric didn't mind the conversation in a language he did not understand. The glistening juice of the leaf was much too interesting to pay attention to foreign words. “But it should help you get some rest if he thinks the 'medicine' requires him to be still.” Yinich gathered the leftover wraps after a finishing touch on Beric's bandage, then went back around the desk and stored them in the drawer.

“Much appreciated,” Thoros replied, speaking the common tongue again and stifling a chuckle. He offered Beric a hand and pulled him up from the chair, away from the fascinating sight of the plant and toward the door. “We'll find the way to the cabin alone,” he turned to Yinich, hiding a yawn behind his hand and not so subtly glancing to a hammock by the window. “And thank you again for seeing us so late in the evening. I'll sleep easier knowing that my friend will be fine.”

Yinich took the oil lamp from his desk and wandered toward the hammock. “Valar edruris,” he gave back with a tired shrug.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The tea brazenly defied Yinich's dislike of sorcerous suggestions and worked its magic on the way to the cabin nonetheless. Beric didn't try to open hatches and only briefly lamented the lack of hammocks when Thoros opened the door. His easy acceptance of plain old beds was owed to the distraction an oil lamp provided. The captain had placed it on the table under the window and left the door ajar so his guests would see which cabin was theirs from the end of the hallway. Now the simple marker had become Beric's source of contention and joy. He had picked it up right away and placed it on a trunk serving as nightstand, 'so the Red God can see us and watch over us while we sleep', as he explained. Thoros didn't mind, not only because he was too tired for a discussion, he also recalled Beric's reluctance to leave the cavern without a torch. Whatever terrors he had seen in the darkness, they still lurked in some corners of his confused mind. The proximity to the lamp was a surprisingly simple solution, and simple solutions were always welcome to tired men.

For one delightfully quiet moment Thoros had thought Beric was too drowsy to start a conversation, but as soon as he sat down on the edge of the bed, the illusion was shattered.

“We should give the Red God another sacrifice tomorrow.” Beric peeked up from under the blanket, making an effort to not move too much. At least in this regard Yinich's claim about the plant juice had been fruitful. “It doesn't seem right that we had a feast with the captain and didn't share any of it with our god.”

“I'm not sure the crew will take kindly to us throwing supplies into the fire,” Thoros gave back, stretched and yawned. “We should at least ask the captain if such customs are allowed on his ship.” He lay down and before he even had a chance to reach for his blanket, Beric grabbed him in a hug, pulling his cover over both of them in the process. “Or we could postpone sacrifices until we're in Myr,” Thoros added, glancing to Beric. “There are many markets and bazaars in the city. We could buy a goat or a sheep and make the sacrifice in the Red Temple. The Lord of Light would probably appreciate that more than us burning some blubber.”

Perhaps there was a way of talking Beric out of drawing attention to his new-found devotion and reduce the risk of him blurting out details about the circumstances of his conversion. When it came to this topic it was best to let Danyal do the talking. He effortlessly struck the right chord between the zeal of recent converts and vagueness about their exact reasons for traveling to Myr. Neither the sailors nor their captain seemed particularly interested about those to begin with and there was no need to change that by hinting at unusual events.

Thoros felt Beric nod and inch closer, reach over him and adjust the position of the lamp on the trunk. For a while it was silent again and Thoros had almost drifted away into well-earned slumber when Beric's voice pulled him back. “Knowing which god is the real one is very comforting,” he mumbled into the pillow, sounding both drowsy and deeply satisfied with the statement. “Sometimes I wondered why the Seven never answered my prayers. Maybe they didn't hear me, I thought, or maybe they were too busy helping people who needed them more.” He once more reached for the oil lamp, already dangerously close to the edge, but this time Thoros slapped his fingers away. “Now I know why,” Beric continued, too sleepy to protest when Thoros pushed the lamp a bit back on the trunk. “They couldn't answer because they were never real.”

 _I thought the same thing about R'hllor for almost all of my life_ , Thoros realized. There had been no signs, no miracles, not a hint that the Red God truly existed. And why he had revealed himself now, in this fashion, was a mystery that colored Thoros' comfort with confusion. However, right now he was too tired to ponder the greater secrets of life and death. Evidently, the Lord of Light had good intentions even though his ways were mysterious, and knowing this was good enough for the moment.

From the corner of his eye Thoros saw Beric feel if the bandage was still in place, again making an effort of moving his arm carefully and slowly. “We should really get some rest now,” Thoros said through a yawn. “The Lord of Light wouldn't have led us to a healer if he didn't want us to take his advice. All men must sleep, he said, and truer words have never been spoken.”


	18. Uncertain Paths

The light in the cabin did not come from the oil lamp and it took Thoros a moment to realize that. It was daylight falling in through the window, bright enough to let him know the sun already stood high. After remembering where he was, Thoros sat up in the bed and had the second realization just a heartbeat later. Beric was gone and the oil lamp from the trunk was missing as well. In its place sat the remains of a candle, burned down to a wide puddle of wax with a tiny flame clinging to the wick in its center. All evidence pointed to Beric having woken up while it was still dark outside, wandering off with his precious lamp, but not without leaving a light source to ensure the Red God could watch the cabin.

Quickly, Thoros jumped up and almost tripped over an open drawer sticking out from under the bed. It was filled with a mishmash of well-thumbed books, tankards, and a small crate of candles. The drawer of the second bed, where they had thrown their surcoats and capes in the evening, had also been opened and its contents lay scattered next to Beric's tattered, black cape. His surcoat was gone and had been replaced by a stack of books, two metal tankards, and a folded spare blanket.

With a sigh Thoros extinguished the candle and went to grab his surcoat before leaving the cabin. Hopefully Danyal, Jalabhar or both were already awake and had found Beric, wherever he had gone to explore. At least Thoros hoped that was what Beric was doing, inspecting the ship, not telling the crew about miracles and resurrections while opening every hatch and drawer he came across.

Only a handful of sailors were under deck, but Thoros could hear the bustle above. Voices shouting in Ibbenese and Valyrian dialects, stepping and stomping, heavy things being moved. He looked around, trying to identify the cabin Danyal and Jalabhar had been given, but most doors were ajar and revealed empty rooms. There was chatter from the end of the hallway though, the galley had to be in this direction. Thoros rushed there as fast as he could, but once he reached the common room he found it filled with sailors and no trace of his companions. He was about to leave and head to the deck when Iosefka's voice held him back in broken Bastard Valyrian.

"You don't eat in morning?" she inquired, almost accusingly glancing to a tray she carried out of the galley. "Your friends eat. Say it is very good."

"I will, later," Thoros hastily gave back for the sake of politeness. "When were they here? Did they eat together? Do you know where they went?"

Iosefka sauntered to a table where three Ibbenese men sat and chatted in their strange language, set down her tray, then turned back to Thoros. "Two tall ones came here not long ago," she said. "Went with Righis, he speak common tongue and show them ship." She shouted something in Ibbenese to the galley and a moment later a scullion placed a new tray on the hatch. "Red one was here much early," she added, pointing to her pinned-up hair. "Went with captain, maybe still with him on deck or in cabin."

Thoros breathed out in relief at this information. At least Beric hadn't been wandering around alone for too long, and the captain's bird might have distracted him from discussing delicate subjects. "I'll come back for a bite once I found him," Thoros assured Iosefka before rushing out of the common room and toward the stairs.

 

Yörb's cabin under the quarterdeck resembled a treasure lair as much as the captain resembled a pirate from embellished legends. Trunks and barrels were overflowing with rolled up sea charts and small carpets, woven baskets held various things ranging from scrimshaw figurines and uncarved tusks and teeth to plain, wooden bowls and bundles of fabric. On the far end of the room the largest, most luxurious hammock Thoros had ever seen swayed under a window, above yet another shelf that had pieces of parchment sticking out of its drawers. The walls were barely visible under a plethora of exotic decorations, masks from Asshai and Yi-Ti, tapestries showing landmarks, ships, and peoples of the Free Cities, weapons that had to be gathered from all across the Known World. Amidst the breathtaking chaos stood a table, hidden under sea charts and stacks of books, and two of the four mismatched chairs around it were occupied when Thoros entered the room.

Yörb didn't seem bothered by a visitor coming in without even knocking and waved Thoros over, but before he made a step toward the table something made him pause. Beric had turned around, sitting with his back to the door, and Thoros couldn't recall ever seeing him so content and at ease. There was a radiance about him that almost had a physical presence, a sense of belonging that swept through the room.

"Since when are you getting up before me?" Thoros managed to ask, taken aback by the odd realization that he was looking at a perfectly composed picture, a scene where nothing was out of place, nothing strange, nothing wrong. "Usually I'm the one waking you up long after sunrise."

Beric nodded along as if he agreed with Thoros' assessment, but wasn't too interested in discussing the matter. "When I woke up I heard voices outside on the hallway," he gave back, luring the fat parrot away from its tabletop perch by holding a dried piece of orange closer to it. "Since I didn't feel tired anymore I decided to see if I can help out the crew."

The captain laughed, grabbed a tankard from the table and offered it to Thoros, gesturing toward the unoccupied chairs with his free hand. "Didn't come to that though," he said. "He asked me for an assignment, but never worked a day of his life on a ship. I'm too attached to this trusty, old barge to assign tasks to men who can barely keep port and starboard apart." He waited for Thoros to sit down and dug up a new mug for himself from a crate under the table. "So I took him with me and explained the routine of the crewmen on my round. Now Yinich has the bridge, old sleepyhead he is, and we can learn about sea charts." He gave Beric a slap on the shoulder, reached for a jug that stood hidden between two stacks of books and filled his mug.

"Itch!" the parrot croaked and dropped the orange, then immediately picked it up again and hastily waddled back to the perch.

Thoros took a swig from the tankard, black beer as the distinct earthy scent revealed when he opened the lid. "Thank you for keeping an eye on him," he quietly said, glancing to the captain when he set the mug down. "Hopefully he didn't keep you away from your duties. He's not quite himself lately and..."

"Who else would I be?" Beric looked up from the sea chart he had briefly yet intently studied and skeptically eyed Thoros up and down. He took a deep breath, but then paused, apparently having forgotten what he wanted to say, and simply turned his attention back to the maps on the table.

"It's no bother at all." Yörb poured down his drink, rocked his chair backwards and snatched a bowl of blubber from a shelf. "He's been watching Yörb for me when I went to wake Yinich, and there wasn't more of a mess in here than I had left him with. He kept studying the charts and I always appreciate it if cabin boys are eager to learn, even if it is only a temporary arrangement." He laughed, let a piece of blubber disappear under his bushy moustache, then began rummaging through the pockets of his coat and finally produced a small, round object that he put on the table under Beric's nose. "Payment," Yörb explained with an air of importance and waited for Beric to inspect the item, a compass as Thoros recognized at first glance. The brass was shiny and engraved with ornate decorations, including what looked like an Ibbenese whaling ship on the lid.

"You're paying him for watching the parrot?" Thoros asked, somewhat baffled. "That bird must be a real piece of work if the task warrants such a reward."

For the first time since they had boarded the _Havalyr_ Yörb looked slightly miffed. "I'm not a slavedriver, am I?" he gave back, unusually stern. "No man of Ib would employ workers he cannot pay." He took the compass, opened the lid and gave it back to Beric who continued his inspection with increased interest.

"I don't like slavery," Beric chimed in, now fascinated by the slight movement of the compass needle. "It is an embarrassment. Every worker should be fairly compensated for his hard work."

"An embarrassment indeed," Thoros agreed, chuckling to himself about the curious phrasing. The captain didn't seem to see anything strange about it. His stern expression had shifted into one of impish satisfaction and Thoros had the sneaking suspicion that the the fat, feathered Yörb on the perch was not the only parrot in the cabin.

"This is pointing north," Beric reported his findings, now looking up from the compass. "We need to go east, in this direction." He nodded across the table to where Thoros sat and waited for the captain to confirm his conclusion.

Yörb got up from his chair and grabbed an earflap toque made of sealskin from a shelf. "That is our course indeed," he cheerfully said and gave Beric a pat on the shoulder. "If the winds agree with us we'll reach Myr in less than a week." He scooped up his parrot from the perch and went to the door. "Now go with your friend and show him the ship. I'll be on the bridge for a few hours."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

"You did _what_?" Robert glared at his visitors from a corner between disbelief and utter shock. "Have you lost your mind? Did you forget who you are?"

"They won't be gone for long," Stannis calmly replied. "It was a necessity. I chose them because I know we can trust them, that there is no secret agenda at play. Grand Maester Pycelle has given me reason for concern in that regard, and I have my suspicions about Lord Varys as well."

Robert arose from his chair, wandered along the banquet table, and absently picked up a cup of wine on his way. "Don't we have enough work on our hands?" He took a sip from the wine and pointedly glared at Stannis. "Why do you suddenly see conspiracies wherever you look? First the North, your fables of demons lurking under the ice. I told you to leave it to the Northerners, and instead of considering the 'problem' addressed..." He paused and poured down the wine, then slammed the cup back on the table. "...you just make up another! You must know boredom quite intimately if you have nothing better to do. It almost seems as if you want me to join you in suffering!"

"I assure you this was not your brother's intention, Your Grace," Lord Arryn interjected as placatory as he could. "We came to you right away and explained the situation. If you..."

"Right away, right away," Robert muttered, but it was enough to make Jon Arryn fall silent. "It's a miracle you didn't send a rider to Rosby in your eagerness to deliver the bad news right away! All because you suddenly take issue with a tottering dotard who has served reasonably well on the council for years!" He sighed and looked around on the table, found a carafe of red wine and refilled the cup. "You two grumpkins almost make want to attend the Tyrell lad's wedding."

"Of course, Your Grace, if you wish..." Jon Arryn began, but he was immediately cut off by the king.

"No! I don't 'wish' it!" he thundered, the annoyance cutting through his voice like lightning cuts through black skies at night. "But I might have to if I don't want to perish from boredom! Even a pompous celebration is better than sitting here!"

"Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider," the Hand tried again. "The North and the Vale are working together toward a swift solution to the difficulties winter brings to the Wall. But I agree with your brother, there is something more amiss, discontent right here in the city, and we need facts to..."

"I'm not his brother, I'm his king!" Robert bellowed and made a menacing step toward his guests. "Sing, Stannis," he continued, glaring at his target, the tone of his voice suddenly too calm, almost furtive. "Sing, dance, I don't care, play a fiddle. Be entertaining, make up for stealing 'your brother's' toys."

Stannis withstood the glare and kept a straight face at the preposterous order. "I will save you that last laugh for the day Viserys Targaryen takes an army across the Narrow Sea," he gave back. "The Northern myths, Pycelle's odd behavior, you might be right about that, perhaps it is nothing. But if Varys' spies lost track of the Mad King's vengeful son, and that is what I strongly suspect, you should be concerned about the implications."

To his surprise Robert paused, thoughtfully furrowed his brow, then wandered back to the table. "What was the last thing you heard about him?" he inquired while pouring himself a new cup of wine.

"Wed his sister to a horse lord," Lord Arryn answered. "I would not be surprised if Varys' spy, Jorah Mormont, went with her. It is hardly a secret that he has a penchant for pretty, young things and some of his reports were..." He hesitated and took a deep breath before trying to phrase it politely. "...'peculiar' might be the right word. Praising the beauty of the girl, comparing her to his second wife, while not saying much at all about her brother."

"Fucking coward," the king muttered into his beard. "Should have knighted Thoros at Pyke..." He took a swig from the carafe instead of his cup, then slowly turned back to Stannis and the Hand. "I hope for your sake he's also a better spy than Jorah Mormont, but now Viserys ran out of pretty, young sisters, so that shouldn't be hard."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“What are you still doing here?” Margaery stood in the open door of the solar, watching Renly sort through a stack of scrolls on his desk. “The horse breeders and the jewelers are arriving, and the merchants from Lys are expected at noon. Don't you want to examine the wares for yourself?” She wandered into the room when Renly only absently nodded and kept glancing over a small piece of parchment. “If you don't hurry I'll pick the wedding gifts all by myself,” she teasingly threatened. “Perhaps I'll find a terrible tapestry as large as a carpet, showing gruff warriors covered in guts and blood. Or a stag statue, coated in gold and encrusted with gemstones of every color, so tawdry it wouldn't look out of place at Casterly Rock.”

“Buy both if you must,” Renly gave back, unimpressed yet amused by the notion. “I'll count on your grandmother if you do, she'll ensure neither will make it to Highgarden in one piece.” He placed three scrolls into a wooden box, leaving only the one he had just read on the table, and finally got up. “It wouldn't even be a waste of money. I'd just have a fine gift for my brother's next name day ahead of time.” He strolled toward the hearth and threw the last scroll into the fire, ignoring Margaery's playful pout.

“My grandmother might be the shield that guards good taste in the Reach, and your brother might appreciate gaudy pieces of art,” Margaery began, still hovering impatiently halfway between the desk and the door. “But I don't think Satal and Loras would be pleased if we came empty-handed. Nor would I...” She paused and shot a glance to the fire, then to Renly. “What are you smiling at?” she inquired, now more curious than irritated at his dawdling. “Did you just burn all the realms' troubles?”

“Some of them.” Renly looked to her with an impish smile. “It was a message from Highgarden, from the Shield of Good Taste.” He grabbed a handful of cherries from a bowl on the mantle and finally went to Margaery and the door. “She invited certain lords from the Crownlands and Westerlands to the wedding, as I told you, though we didn't expect all to accept.”

“Yet they did?” Margaery concluded as they stepped out of the solar and went down the hallway toward the stairs.

“Yet they did,” Renly confirmed. “Apparently there's quite some discontent with Robert's plans for the winter. These certain lords somehow learned about rumors about an upcoming tourney in the Red Keep. Yet another wasteful diversion that ignores the needs of the people.”

“A tourney? In the Red Keep? In winter?” Margaery stopped abruptly when they reached the stairs. “He wants to feast and drink while people in the streets are struggling against cold and starvation?”

Renly answered with a vague shrug and began descending the wide steps. “Can't say I'm surprised that's Robert's idea of spending the winter,” he said. “And it works in our favor. Good relations with us and our trade partners just became even more important to those 'certain lords'. Who knows who else will be swayed once those tourney plans reach the ear of the public?”

“How did these 'certain lords' learn about it?” Margaery quickly followed Renly downstairs. “The names grandmother mentioned when we spoke about wedding invitations didn't belong to close friends of your brothers or the queen. This is not the kind of gossip people trade after their visits to the sept, and men like Guncer Sunglass and Hubart Rambton are known to do little else with their time.”

Again, Renly shrugged, but now a roguish smirk played on his lips. “It appears we have more friends at court than expected,” he gave back. “Time will tell just how well-disposed they are toward us.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Lonely Hills glimmered brightly in the wan late morning sun, even the trampled path leading to the northern road had almost disappeared under a layer of new snow. The party that had carved the dirty brown trail earlier had been the largest so far, more than a dozen boys and men, followed by a handful of stragglers arriving later in the evening. Most had come from settlements along the White Knife or the Sheepshead Hills, except for a pair of brothers who had mentioned the Hornwood as their home. In the past weeks the Lonely Hills hadn't been quite as lonely as usual, this had not been the first group passing through and Leiff knew it would not be the last. The call to arms against wildling invasions had trickled down to villages and castles all over the North and this was merely the first wave of new recruits bound for the Wall.

“It almost feels like being back at the Twins,” Leiff heard Kareena's voice from the stairs to the tower. “Brothers, cousins, uncles, one chattering away louder than the next, that is something I frankly don't miss at all.” She pulled her fur-lined hood deeper into her face and came closer to the balustrade where Leiff stood and stared into the snow-covered distance. “But I will admit having company is a pleasant change of pace. I only wish they'd bring some girls with them. They might know more varied subjects to chat about than the heroic deeds these boys think await in their future.” She leaned her arms on the balustrade and rested her head on Leiff's shoulder. “They can't _all_ slay the King-beyond-the-Wall in single combat, can they?”

“Most of them probably won't venture beyond the Wall at all,” Leiff absently replied and put an arm around Kareena's shoulders. “There are nineteen castles. Sixteen are unmanned and at least half of them are in awful condition. That is where these loud-mouthed boys are needed. They will become stewards and builders and stay on the southern side.”

“That is what Lord Stark's order said, you showed me the letter.” Kareena's gaze wandered across the snow-crowned fir trees and the hills, searching what captivated her husband's attention on the horizon. “But there's something bothering you about this, isn't there? At first you pretended the order was never given and told your mother it was too late to call Benjen back. You could have tried, you could have sent a raven to Hornwood or White Harbor, but you didn't. And now you seem more somber with each week, each group passing through. It is as if each of the recruits takes a piece of your soul with him to the Wall. Isn't this what people in this region were hoping for? Stronger defenses, better protection from wildlings?”

 

For a while Leiff just stared to the northern horizon, the uncertain fate of the group that had left Frostspear Hall in the morning. “Something isn't right about this,” he finally said. “There doesn't seem to be a reason for the sudden call to arms, no urgency for such measures.” He looked down to Kareena and slightly nodded to the stairwell, a silent suggestion to continue their conversation inside. “I was only a boy during the last winter, but I remember it well,” he explained on their way down the stairs. “My father was often gone for weeks at a time, fending off wildling raids in the forests around Last Hearth. Attacks were frequent even though it was a mild winter and both the Night's Watch and the Umbers patrolled the Gift.”

Kareena stopped on the landing and rubbed her cold hands together, then let Leiff help her out of the thick, fur-lined coat. “So why do you think there's no urgency now?” she asked. “If the castles of the Night's Watch are no longer empty ruins, fewer raiders will make it past the Wall and people won't have to fear their attacks.”

Leiff took off his cloak and threw it over the railing of the stairs along with Kareena's. “It isn't as simple as it sounds,” he gave back. “There have been raids, yes, but not as many as expected. It's been months since the hunters caught any wildlings in the foothills, and the ones they found weren't raiders, not even close.” He waited for Kareena to follow him to the solar and held the heavy door open for her. “The caverns used to be popular hideouts, we lost many men there in the past, but ever since the white raven arrived we've only found wildlings twice. A woman with two boys younger than Benjen, and a group of four men that were not even armed.”

“So it is working.” Kareena shrugged and headed straight for the armchairs in front of the hearth.

“I suppose it is.” Leiff took a jug from the shelf next to the door and began filling two mugs with ale. “It just strikes me as strange that we didn't have much trouble before Lord Stark even gave the order, yet he plans on rebuilding the castles this late in the season. I've heard people call the constructions in White Harbor a fool's errand, some think Lord Manderly should postpone the undertaking until spring. But the Wall? Winter is not coming for it, it's already there. Why didn't the repairs begin when it was warmer? The severity of the next winter hardly comes as a surprise. We're Northerners, we've seen harsh winters before.” He handed Kareena one of the mugs, but didn't sit down in the second armchair and instead went to his desk.

“My grandfather always postponed repairs until the very last moment,” Kareena said and took a sip from her ale. “There's been talk about reinforcing the Crossing for years, about some parts being brittle and at risk of breaking off once it gets too cold. But my grandfather keeps saying it's not that dire yet.” She chuckled and stretched her legs out, holding her feet closer to the crackling fire. “By which he means it's too expensive, of course.”

Leiff produced a small smile, but it was easy to see his heart wasn't in it. “The Night's Watch is not a matter of cost,” he said after a brief silence. “But food is. Winter hasn't reached the southern lands yet. People are still harvesting and hunting in those areas, yet their men have been ordered away when they are needed there most.”

Kareena glanced over to him, her brow skeptically furrowed. “You have thought quite a bit about the problems arising from this order, haven't you?”

“I have.” Something in Leiff's voice suggested he wanted her to turn around, and she did. “These are letters I have received in the past weeks,” he continued, pushing a stack of scrolls closer to the edge of the desk. “Most of them from people I never met, smaller houses from the Hornwood, the Barrowlands, even the Stony Shore and Cape Kraken. They all want to know about the raids, how dire the conditions really are this far north.” He went around the desk, took the stack and joined Kareena by the fire. “Some of them wrote to Lord Umber before and received no satisfying answers.” He dropped the scrolls onto her lap. “Perhaps because Lord Umber doesn't enjoy lying to people, yet wants to see the Wall re-manned nonetheless.”

Kareena quizzically regarded him for a moment, then she set her mug down on small side table and began skimming over some of the scrolls. “You think people would disobey if Lord Umber told them the truth? That they'd decide the Wall can do without their sons and brothers if the rumors of fiercer raids turn out to be exaggerations?”

Leiff didn't answer and quietly sipped from his mug. “I don't know what reply I should give them,” he said after a while. “It doesn't seem right to withhold the truth, though I'm not sure I truly know what the truth is. Perhaps there is a new King-beyond-the-Wall who is biding his time and gathering his forces. Perhaps each and every man will be crucial in his defeat, in keeping us safe from a wildling invasion worse than anything the North has ever seen in the past.” He leaned back, drank from his ale and sighed. “Still, I have a strange feeling about it and I don't know what to do. I wish people would spare me from making that choice and ask Lord Bolton instead. But his reputation precedes him, and I can't blame them for thinking he won't be sympathetic to their concerns.”


	19. Auspicious Signs

“Is that so? Are we all doing our duty to the North?” The burly, young man arose from the bench and demonstratively looked around in the Great Hall. “Where are all the men the great houses spared for the cause? I don't see any Umbers or Karstarks, no Manderlys, no Starks! Haven't met a single man whose home is south of the Hornwood on the road!”

His companions paused and thought about that for a moment, there were whispers and murmurs, then a skinny man, perhaps twice the age of the loudmouth, spoke up. “Why would they travel this road?” he asked, addressing both the burly lad and the other men on the table. “People from Cerwyn, Winterfell and White Harbor take the Kingsroad to Castle Black. It's in better condition than the backroads through the Sheepshead Hills.” He withstood the glare of the first speaker, still standing and menacingly towering over the table. “Last Hearth lies further north, nobody would travel in this direction on his way to the Wall. And I heard the Karstarks sent their men to Eastwatch by ship. That's why you don't see them here in the Lonely Hills.”

Some of the other men in the Great Hall nodded and resumed eating their stew, but the burly youngster wasn't done yet with his huffed speech. “And you believe that because 'you heard it'?” He leaned over the table, putting his big hands left and right of the skinny man's bowl. “I've heard a few things myself and they don't they align with what you say. I've heard people from Oldcastle, Ramsgate and southern settlements are flocking to White Harbor! And why wouldn't they? The Manderlys pay well, who wouldn't prefer that to the donkeywork waiting for us at the Wall?” The skinny man was about to interrupt, but the burly guy continued, undeterred. “It's a waste sending us to the stinky, old castles! The cold will take care of the wildlings soon enough, they'll perish without food and shelter. But we shouldn't have to meet the same fate! We should be out hunting and fishing and filling the pantries at home! We should...”

“I've heard the Karstarks are exempt from the order.” The weak, yet confident voice immediately silenced the room and all heads swirled around, searching the source of this bold claim.

“Where did you hear that?” A middle-aged man, a guard or man-at-arms, judging by the leather armor he wore, was the first one to spot the freckled boy who had said it.

“People talk.” The boy shrugged and lifted the bowl to sup the rest of his stew. “I'm from a fishing village by the mouth of the Last River,” he explained when everyone still stared at him after he set the bowl back on the table. “Heard my father talk to my brother late at night. My brother asked why the recruits from our village were not sent to Karhold. There were only three men and he thought they'd join up with other small groups from the Grey Cliffs to be shipped to Eastwatch. But my father said the ship wouldn't leave any time soon because Eddard Karstark fell ill and couldn't go with the others.” He grabbed his mug and emptied it before disclosing the rest of his information. “I didn't catch everything they were talking about, but in the morning I was told I'd be going to Castle Black.”

The two men sitting left and right of the boy nodded in unison and the older one addressed the hall. “We've been wondering what that was all about on the road,” he said. “Perhaps they're waiting for his recovery, we thought. But if he can wait, why can't we? Why didn't we all go to Eastwatch a week or two later?” He looked to the second man and undecidedly shrugged. “Borgolt here has a cousin at Castle Black. Perhaps that's why we're going there instead, a familiar face to get us settled in.”

“Fell ill?” the burly man on the other table echoed, his voice filled with disdain. “Now that's convenient, isn't it? A strong, young lad just happens to fall ill all of a sudden? He gets to stay in his comfortable castle while those less fortunate and wealthy are sent on their way?” He stood up straight again and pointed to the freckled boy while still glaring at the skinny man across their table. “There, now 'you've heard' something else! How does your conviction that the Starks know what they're doing hold up in the light of this recount?”

 

Leiff sighed and stepped away from the gallery overlooking the Great Hall. He had heard enough of the heated discussion, by no means the first or last of its kind since the recruits had begun pouring in from the surrounding areas. Maybe listening in once again had been a bad idea, he pondered as he wandered back toward the arched hallway leading to Frostspear Hall's private chambers. The more rumors, suspicions and half-truths he witnessed the more the doubt festered in his mind, the more he wondered what was really taking shape under the cover of winter.

Greatjon Umber had replied to his letter and he had been less vague than many of the requests Leiff had received insinuated. It had not been a satisfying reply though, merely a reminder that House Umber had carried the responsibility for keeping the area safe for decades with little help from more southern houses. Though the attacks had decreased in the past months he was glad for the order, Lord Umber wrote, this was a chance of getting a foothold against savage invaders once and for all. He urged Leiff to raise the spirits of recruits passing through the Lonely Hills, offer hospitality and commend the Night's Watch honorable duty to the realms. However, talk of honor and duty was cheap for a Great House, and supplies for the winter were decidedly not. Many of the recruits came from small settlements and less wealthy areas where men were needed for harvests and hunts. Sending them to the Wall would see them clothed, fed and sheltered, but they left behind families who had to care for themselves. Leiff felt the consequences of the order himself whenever Harrion left Frostspear Hall with his diminished party of hunters and returned with less bountiful spoils.

“A raven arrived, my lord,” Maester Faelan's voice pulled Leiff out of his brooding, back to the long hallway on the upper floor.

“Which stranger suddenly values my assessment of wildling threats this time?” Leiff sullenly gave back when he spotted the maester in the open door of his chambers. “I have enough unanswered letters in the solar as it is.”

Maester Faelan shook his head and waved Leiff closer to show him the scroll. “This message may herald a chance of getting answers rather than more open questions,” he said. “The Lady of Barrowton, Barbrey Dustin, appears to have departed for Last Hearth after not getting the clarity she had hoped she would get from Lord Umber. She might stay here for a night or two on her journey and tell us about the circumstances farther south.”

Leiff took the scroll and skimmed over the few lines written on it, a brief message that could not have been more vague if it tried. “Appears to have departed?” he asked, brow skeptically furrowed. “Might stay here? I've heard about Lady Dustin, though I never met her, and she doesn't strike me as a particularly indecisive woman.”

“She has no fondness of maesters,” Maester Faelan replied with a somewhat indignant sigh. “I imagine she didn't tell the poor soul serving Barrow Hall when or where she was leaving, and he took it upon himself to make arrangements with the information he had.”

After thinking about it for a moment Leiff nodded and returned the scroll to Faelan. “Then let us hope she'll be less tight-lipped when talking to me,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder to the gallery and the Great Hall. “Her fondness of maesters, or a lack thereof, is not my concern. She has the tenacity to come looking for answers I want as well. House Dustin is old and well-respected, she stands a better chance at getting them than I ever will. Have the best rooms prepared and let Harrion know when to send out scouts to look for her party. We must offer her the best accommodations we can and I want to be alerted of her arrival at least one day ahead.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Narrow Sea had grown tired of its rage and left the _Havalyr_ with fair winds instead of harsh storms for the past two days and nights. It made no difference to the captain though. His jolly nature remained unchanged regardless of the waves and the weather. What lifted his spirits even further was the sighting of a Braavosi galley when the coastline of Essos was already visible on the horizon ahead. Its sails added a bold dash of purple to the shades of blue of the sky and the sea, but it was not the pleasant play of colors that put the captain and his crew in such a good mood.

“It's a good omen,” Righis explained. Since he spoke the common tongue more fluently than most of the others Yörb had excused the young Yunkish man from his duties, and instead had him serve as steward for the passengers until they reached Myr. “We signal a greeting to them to invite good profits and success for our next voyage.”

“Your next voyage?” Danyal followed him up the stairs to the bridge where the captain stood and watched a small, secondary flag being hoisted on the main mast. “Why would you need success and good profits for that? I thought the timber for Myr is the last cargo you have. You are not going to take in new goods at home?”

“Home...” Righis chuckled and waved to the distant Braavosi ship. “The sea is our home, though I suppose you meant Ib. If you had ever been there in autumn you'd know you wouldn't ever want to spend a winter there.” He threw a daring glance to the captain, now in earshot, then turned back to Danyal and his companions. “Nobody holds it against the Ibbenese that they don't allow foreigners on their soil. A frozen rock full of grumpy chawblubbers living in caves, who'd want to go there in the first place? I'd rather winter in Braavos myself. It doesn't get quite as cold there and they have real houses.”

The captain laughed into his beard and the parrot on his shoulder chimed in with a croaking imitation of the sound. “But you won't,” he said, jokingly stern. “We'll deliver the cargo from Volantis and that will be the last time we'll see Ib before spring.” He joined the group on the ship's rail and gestured in the southern direction. “We're not going to winter anywhere,” he declared, now talking to Danyal and Thoros who stood closest to him. “There's no winter in the Summer Sea! Those waters are always temperate and there's no shortage of contracts in the ports of the southern coasts.” He eyed Righis up from head to toe, straightened his back and looked back to the sea. “Though he's right, not even I would want to winter on Ib,” he then almost sheepishly added. “There's a reason I gave up whaling in favor of merchant shipping a long time ago. Wasn't the cursed ice dragons or other such hazards from the White Waste.” The captain laughed again and looked to his parrot. “We think alike, Yörb and I, our sunny disposition needs warmer weather than the Shivering Sea has to offer.”

“The Shivering Sea is in the north,” Beric noted, appraisingly regarding the compass in his hand. “It meets the Narrow Sea between the coast of Braavos and the Fingers. We don't need to go there. We need to go east.”

“We will need to go north once we concluded our business in Myr,” Jalabhar gave back. “Not as far as the Shivering Sea, but...” He paused, his eyes met Thoros' and the silent exchange confirmed they both had the same thought upon hearing about the captain's planned route. “How long do you expect to stay in Volantis?” Jalabhar casually turned to Yörb. “Would you consider stopping in Myr and King's Landing on the way back to Ib? We'd pay for the detour, of course, if having passengers won't be too much of an inconvenience.”

“Won't be, won't be,” Yörb promptly replied. “Won't stay very long in Volantis either nor am I loading cargo that can spoil.” He paused for a moment, apparently trying to remember what that cargo was.

“Carpets and lace,” Righis helped and the captain nodded.

“That's right, carpets and lace,” he said. “My First Mate negotiated the contract, I'm not entirely clear on the details myself.” He absently fed his parrot what looked like a walnut and wandered back to the helm. “Should probably pick up said First Mate in Volantis as well,” he muttered with slight amusement. “Always busy with investments, no matter which port.” He waved to the purple ship passing by and raised his hat to the Braavosi captain who returned the greeting from the opposite bridge. “If our schedule suits, you can consider your passage booked,” Yörb turned back to Jalabhar, speaking louder again. “We can negotiate the details while my crew is unloading the timber in Myr.”

“It suits indeed,” Jalabhar replied after receiving silent confirmation from Thoros with a nod. “If we have to conclude our business in a hurry to sail with you, so be it. After our ordeal on the Bowbiter Islands we value a seasoned captain and a sturdy ship more than our time.”

“Ordeal!” The captain guffawed and adjusted the hat he had put back on. “You've been there for one night and day! I was once stranded on a rock near the Isle of Toads for twenty-seven days! No shelter except for a mud hole covered with driftwood, only seaweed for food during the first two weeks!” He paused, thought for a moment and chuckled into his beard. “Then I got lucky and a storm washed plenty of dead starfish ashore. It's like chewing a bath sponge, but it was a feast nonetheless.”

Beric pricked his ears and turned around to the captain, apparently hoping to hear more of this story. “I have never seen a starfish,” he began and his tone was much too inquisitive for such a simple statement.

“I have,” Danyal quickly stepped in before Beric could voice intentions of obtaining and very likely eating a starfish. Ever since Yörb had been right about the smoked eel after they came on board, Beric had tried every food the captain recommended. Not all of it had been to his liking, but it hadn't stopped him from trying the next thing Yörb ate either. “There's a dried starfish in the common room. You probably didn't notice it because it's hidden between the seashells of the decoration above the hatch to the galley.”

“There's more than one.” Yörb chuckled into his beard. “For dead fish they are pretty good at hiding. They make for better decoration than food though.” He glanced to the parrot, then back to Danyal and Beric. “Go ahead, show him a real starfish. And if you're going to the galley anyway, would you mind bringing some dried fruit for Yörb?”

The nonchalant request had an immediate effect on Beric, though there was no telling if the notion of candy distracted him or if he wondered whether dried starfish were edible now. The look on Danyal's face said he was very much hoping it would be the former when Beric grabbed his sleeve and dragged him to the stairs.

“You should really take the lad to a healer,” Yörb noted once they were out of earshot. “He'll get himself killed if he eats every funny-shaped thing from the sea.”

“First thing we'll do in Myr,” Thoros said. “Not only because it would leave a bad impression if my converts tried to eat the incense because of the good smell.” Jesting about his concerns didn't chase them away, Thoros realized. Once they set foot on Myrish soil he would have to confront them. As amusing as Beric's antics had been since his resurrection, Thoros hoped and prayed this would not be a lasting aftereffect. Yes, maybe he had accidentally used forbidden magic and maybe knowing about it would make people wary. But if confessing to the healers in the Red Temple would aid Beric's recovery Thoros would do it, consequences be damned. His gaze followed the Braavosi galley, slowly drifting away across the endless blue of the sea, and he mentally lifted a hat to them, inviting good fortune to join them in Myr.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Ah, Davos, come in.” Stannis closed the old tome, pushed it aside and waved his visitor in. “What bad news do you have for me today?”

“The good kind, my lord,” Davos gave back, closed the door and headed for the chairs in front of Stannis' desk. He placed a tattered ledger on it, tattered from frequent use, not old age or inappropriate storage conditions. “The harbormaster's report for the past six months,” he explained, but Stannis had already reached for the book. “The bad news could be much worse,” Davos continued. “There's only one pressing issue that needs to be dealt with, the warehouses holding unclaimed goods.”

“What's wrong with the warehouse?” Stannis briefly glanced up, then opened the ledger and began reading the first page, a neatly drawn table contrasted by the harbormaster's crabbed handwriting.

“It is full,” Davos plainly replied. He stood up again, though he had just sat down on one of the upholstered chairs, and produced a scroll displaying the same scrawl. “Thirty barrels of cheap wine from Pentos. We opened one for inspection and I recommend changing the entry to 'vinegar',” he began reading the list out loud. “Several different shipments of now fermented crawfish, crabs, and oysters, a total of fifty-eight barrels and they smell as bad as you think. Dried peppers, three barrels, as well as an assortment of spices in smaller quantities. Eighteen barrels of...” He broke off when Stannis snatched the list from his hand and skimmed it, standing between his chair and the table.

“Get rid of the spoiled fish,” he said. “And tell the harbormaster to not keep such goods in storage. If the owner doesn't claim them right away they belong to the crown. He can auction it off on Fishmonger Square while it's fresh, all profits are to be used for repairs on the docks.” Stannis sat back down and took another look at the list. “Peppers, spices and dried fruit can go to auction as well,” he added after brief consideration. “The tapestries strike me as too valuable to be abandoned. Send them to Lord Baelish. Tell him to locate whoever paid for them, the description reads like he might know men of such taste.”

Davos nodded and hastily scribbled notes on a piece of parchment. “What if Lord Baelish can't find the owner?” he inquired, resting the quill and looking to Stannis for further instructions.

“Then he can keep them,” Stannis replied, still studying the list. “And we'll keep some of the barrels from Pentos for the Red Keep's pantry. Wine rarely lasts long enough here to turn into vinegar, and if my brother insists on his forsaken tourney we need to stock up on pickled food.” He dryly chuckled to himself and put the scroll down. “Would that be all harbor business we have for today?”

“It is, my lord.” Davos blew on his notes to dry the ink, then rolled the parchment up and stored it in his pocket. “The _Godsgrace_ arrived at Lannisport,” he added when he had already gotten up from the chair. “The harbormaster sent his regards for the swift aid.” He was about to say more, but the boisterous thud of the door slamming against the wall cut him off.

 

“Why is the _Godsgrace_ at Lannisport?” King Robert entered the room with the same momentum and volume of the door. “Is there a new rebellion at Pyke and nobody cared to tell me about it?”

Davos quickly took a bow, Stannis only cared to welcome the unexpected guest with a nod. “Lannisport reported more brazen attacks by raiders from the Iron Islands, Your Grace,” Davos answered the question. “The _Godsgrace_ was dispatched a few weeks ago as a show of force. Reinforcing the patrols with a warship made the raiders think twice about coming close to the harbor.”

“Of course, of course.” The king wandered toward the desk, albeit very slowly, looking around as if he had never been in this part of the castle before. “Good relations with the Westerlands are important,” he continued, apparently holding a speech to himself. “If Lannisport asks for help we're obliged to provide it. I would have given the same order if I was the Master of Ships. The _Godsgrace_ is a good, sturdy ship for the task.”

Robert took a turn before he reached the chairs and Davos, now strolling toward the window and looking outside. Davos exchanged a puzzled glance with Stannis, silently asking why in the world the king had barged into their conversation, evidently without a noteworthy contribution or urgent orders. Stannis' expression held the obvious answer, he hadn't expected the king either and was at a loss why he was here as well. “What brought you here today, Your Grace? Are there any matters you wish to discuss?” he tried to get straight to the point, but his brother remained short on an explanation.

“Tell me a story, Stannis.” Robert finally turned away from the window and now faced the desk. “I don't care if you practiced your yarns with the Council in the meantime. You sent my storytellers away, now you take their place.” Unlike in their previous conversation it didn't sound like an order. There was no anger, no impatience in the king's voice, only a vast sense of boredom. “Is there any wine here?” His gaze suddenly jumped to Davos, clearly expecting him to know better than Stannis what his study had stocked or not.

After another puzzled exchange of glances Davos nodded to a tall cabinet next to the door, but before he had even taken one step toward it, Robert was already there. “More than I expected! One bottle for each of us!” he commented on his discovery of three bottles of white Arbor wine, grabbed one and cheerfully swirled back around. “Ser Davos, find us some cups. I hope you didn't forget all the yarns you picked up at sea because I still don't fully trust Stannis' talent as entertainer.” He guffawed at the baffled expression and reached for the backrest of the nearest chair. “I'm not interrupting urgent business, am I?” For a moment there was a pause, neither Davos nor Stannis knew how to react to this odd visit, but it didn't seem to bother the king.

Stannis thoughtfully regarded his brother, trying to understand what went on his head. “Go ahead, get the cups,” he told Davos, both to win time for consideration and because there was no point in defying the king's order. His glance grazed the book he had been reading earlier, _Dragons, Merfolk and Monsters_ , and his hand slowly reached for it. “I will leave the wine to you and Davos, Your Grace,” he said, carefully watching Robert's reaction. “After all, I'm sober whenever I speak to the Council. Whatever practice I have won't mix well with wine.”

Instead of the expected lecture about fun and wine being inseparable, Robert let out another bellowing laughter. “And people say a hard-drinking nature is the true gift of sailors!” He turned around and watched Davos search for cups in the cabinet. “It has never been delivered to my brother, but I'm sure the two of us will make do.”


	20. Eastern Shores

The busy port of Myr was teeming with merchants, sailors, and workers, so much that it seemed as if the whole Known World was already there when the _Havalyr_ entered the harbor. The presence of a second Braavosi ship caused much excitement among the crew, but it quickly turned into heated discussions when the striped hull of a Lyseni galley came into view right behind it. Apparently the concurrence of these vessels had a different meaning in regards to superstition and there were at least three groups arguing over which one was right on Yörb's ship. Righis had translated at first, then tried to explain their positions, but it soon became clear he couldn't make much sense of it either.

“Take a good look at the pottery store.” Jalabhar pointed across the harbor when he returned from his chat with the captain. “We will have to find it again later. The owner, Trego Orhon, will apprise us of the _Havalyr_ 's return from Volantis, but we need to inform him where we're staying once we've found an inn.”

Danyal's gaze followed Jalabhar's finger and Thoros quickly looked over his shoulder as well before turning back to Beric. He hadn't decided yet whether the bustle of the harbor fascinated or confused him, and Thoros would rather keep an eye on him, should he try to wander off and disappear in a crowd. He wasn't even so sure Beric had made the connection between the harbor and their destination yet since he studied his compass on occasion as if he was still at sea. For all Thoros knew, Beric believed himself to be in Braavos, Ebonhead or any of the numerous cities Captain Yörb had told him about.

“How many pottery stores can there be?” Danyal shrugged and sat down on one of the barrels Yörb's crew had already unloaded. “It shouldn't be hard to find.”

“This is not King's Landing or Oldtown,” Thoros gave back, his hand hovering over Beric's shoulder, ready to grasp. “You'd be surprised how many stores there are in this city.”

“There are four in the waterfront buildings alone, according to the captain,” Jalabhar informed them. “I suggest we take care of our accommodations and make arrangements with this Trego Orhon right away.”

“And I suggest we first find a market.” Danyal looked down on himself and tugged on the battered sleeves of his surcoat. “We look like we just stepped out of Flea Bottom. My cloak is still on the damned island, Beric's is tattered and Thoros...” He paused and regarded Thoros' faded red cloak, not looking much different than before its encounter with the Ragged Teeth. “We shouldn't look like beggars on our search for an inn and even less when we'll visit the Red God's temple.”

Thoros' hand came down, grabbed Beric's shoulder and instead of walking right into the crowd, Beric stopped dead in his tracks. “Not so fast, Lord Sunshine.” Thoros put his arm around Beric and pulled him closer. “We haven't yet decided where we'll go first.”

“To the market,” Beric replied with overt irritation. “We need to buy a sheep or a goat if we're going to the Red Temple.” He furrowed his brow and studied Thoros for a moment. “You said that would be a better sacrifice than blubber, remember?”

Thoros nodded, but he didn't let go of Beric despite his attempts at winding himself out of the grasp. “It is, but I agree with Jalabhar. We should find an inn first and then visit a market. There'll be enough time for sacrifices while we wait for an audience with Lady Sandrine. She's a busy woman since she became the Priestess Provost of Myr. It will be a few days at least before we can see her.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The inn occupied a wide two-story building that lined the main road leading from the harbor through the gate. Though the owner had looked upon the tattered patrons with some suspicion when they had entered, his tone changed as soon as Jalabhar jangled the purse. The room he had given the new arrivals had a generous layout and was furnished in a visibly costly way. Comfortable beds made from polished dark wood, richly decorated trunks and dressers, a tall, heavy wardrobe with an ornate mirror, and fine carpets covering the tiled floor. A curtain separated a nook from the main room and sheltered a side board with a basin and a bathtub from view.

Thoros had retreated to this hideout and took his time by the basin. Though the _Havalyr_ had fairly decent accommodations, they didn't quite compare to the luxury of an expensive inn. But the tub was empty, Jalabhar had left with the money that would have been required to fill it, and Thoros could only wash his face and hands so many times before it felt pointless.

“Have you looked in the trunk under the other window?” he heard Beric ask from the other side of the curtain, then there was a rumbling and a door, likely the wardrobe's, fell shut.

Thoros shot one last annoyed glance at himself in the mirror, sighed, turned around and stepped through the curtain. As expected, Beric still stood on a chair and inspected the top of the wardrobe while Danyal was about to open the trunk that had been pointed out to him. The contents of various dressers, mainly sheets and extra blankets, were scattered across the beds and a table, and even the tray of refreshments a servant had placed there had been taken apart. Some figs had been eaten, but the rest of the bowls now sat on the window sill, only the jug and two of the cups hadn't been moved. “I should have gone with Jalabhar,” Thoros muttered under his breath. Seeing the pottery merchant and making arrangements at the temple would have spared him from the emerging chaos all around.

“It's empty.” Danyal turned around to face Beric and report his findings, or lack thereof, in the trunk. “And I believe we've looked into all of the dressers and the drawers under the beds.” Beric paused and thought about that for a moment, then his gaze wandered from the wardrobe to the door. Before he could order Danyal to search other rooms of the inn for whatever, Thoros noisily cleared his throat.

“Maybe you should put everything back where you found it then,” he said, glaring reproachfully to Danyal by the window. “As impressive as the chaos you created in his absence is, I assure you Jalabhar won't be too pleased with it. And neither am I.” He pushed a drawer closed with his foot and stepped over a stack of blankets on his way to the center of the large room. “There has to be some other way to keep yourself entertained.” He grabbed Danyal's sword from the nearest bed and leaned it against the table. “One that leaves the room we're supposed to sleep in in a more habitable condition.”

“My lord wants to know what these dressers contain,” Danyal gave back with an air of importance. “If he orders me to help him go through them that's what I'll do.”

Thoros sighed, rolled his eyes and shut the empty trunk Danyal guarded. “Now you've humored him and we know there's nothing of interest in them though,” he said. “What's more important to you? Your sudden fervor for keeping your oath to the letter or the fact that Jalabhar carries our money and won't like this sight?”

Danyal shrugged, still looking a bit too amused for Thoros' taste, and sat down on the bed. “We're in a big city,” he replied, unconcerned. “Making money should be child's play here if push comes to shove.” He leaned back and stretched out on the silky cushions. “What's taking Prince Peacock so long anyway? He'd better get back here soon or we'll visit the market without him.”

The chair Beric was balancing on rocked under his movements and Thoros made it there to grab the backrest just in time. “The streets are crowded and so is the temple,” he turned back to Danyal. “We can't just stroll in, we need to arrange an audience first. That's why he went alone, in case you already forgot what we discussed. Beric doesn't need more confusing impressions in his condition, he needs rest before we go anywhere.” He reached up, tried to drag Beric off the chair and succeeded, though not without protest.

“I don't want rest.” Beric glared at him, pouting, and crossed his arms in defiance. “I want to see Myr and buy a goat for the Red God.”

“I know.” Thoros gently pushed him toward the bed next to the wardrobe. “And we'll buy one. We need to make a donation to the temple anyway. But you should lay down until Jalabhar comes back. He'll tell us when we can see the healer and I'm sure there'll be enough time for the purchase before.”

Beric didn't resist when Thoros sat him down on the bed, but he still looked sullen. Without the distractions a large ship provided, he seemed bored and unsure what to do with himself. Finding out earlier that Danyal carried out orders had entertained him and for a while he had kept busy with that. At first it had been innocuous orders like sending Danyal to the common room and asking for food to be brought upstairs. Then Beric had turned his mind toward greater things and it had resulted in the chaos that surrounded them now. With no drawers or dressers left to inspect, the room had exhausted its entertainment value and Beric sensed new prospects outside.

“We could go to the common room and sample the local food,” Thoros suggested when Beric's expression shifted to one of resignation. If Beric wouldn't rest it was preferable to entertain him where he couldn't wander off and get lost in crowded alleys. It had almost happened twice on the way to the inn and tracking him down in the bustle between unfamiliar buildings and people would be considerably harder than on a ship. Myr was not only much larger, it also lacked a captain Beric tried to follow around like a puppy and there was no telling where he'd be going instead.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The common room was cooler than the guest rooms thanks to the colorful awnings above the windows keeping the bright afternoon sun out. A few patrons, travelers from Lys by their looks, sat in a corner of the white sandstone room and minded their own business. Their quiet chatter was drowned out by the constant noise from the street and the rattling from behind the counter where the innkeeper stacked plates on a shelf.

“I like this dish.” Beric shoveled another forkful of seared beef strips and fried vegetables into his mouth. “It is more flavorful than what is served in taverns at home.”

“I thought you might like it,” Thoros gave back with an amused sigh. There hadn't been a dish on the menu that didn't find Beric's approval. Why would this one have been any different from the three he had sampled so far? “Most places in Essos have their own version of it. Vegetables from the region and seasoned with local spices, just the beef stays the same.” Thoros took another sip from his beer and leaned back in the chair. “Jalabhar claims the recipe came from Yi-Ti and first spread on the Summer Isles before finding its way to the Free Cities many years later. Had the Red Keep's kitchen prepare it the way he knew it from home and Robert almost exiled him because the sauce was much too spicy.” He chuckled and watched Beric poke around on his plate, perhaps trying to find the offending spices. “It's milder the farther north you go up the coast,” Thoros added. “Robert took no offense at the Braavosi seasoning, he only complained that there was not enough meat between the greens.”

Beric thought about that for a moment, then resumed his small feast without further comment. Apparently this dish was his actual favorite, as he didn't pay attention to the other three half-empty plates.

“You know, I'm not keeping you here because I'm trying to spoil your first visit to Myr,” Thoros began, carefully glancing to the stairs over Beric's shoulder. To his silent amusement, Beric had ordered Danyal to clean up the mess in their room and Thoros hoped that would keep him busy while he tried to have a serious conversation. “I'm worried about you. You're not quite yourself since...” He paused and leaned closer. “...the shipwreck,” he then carefully avoided the word 'resurrection'. “It probably doesn't feel that way to you, but your behavior has been rather eccentric.”

Beric skeptically looked up from his plate, the hand holding his fork hovering undecidedly in the air. “I'm not 'eccentric',” he gave back with an air of defiance, then the beef strip and fried bell pepper disappeared in his mouth.

“No, normally you're not.” Thoros sighed to himself and pulled one of the abandoned plates closer. “That's what I'm talking about. Normally, you dislike overindulgence, you don't leave your chambers in disarray and you like to sleep in.” He fished a piece of pickled eggplant from the plate while Beric chewed and casually nodded along with the assessment. “Recently, however, you've been eating for two and seem to enjoy dishes you disliked before. There's chaos in your wake wherever you go and you're awake long before me. Maybe 'eccentric' isn't the right word, but you have to admit that it is rather unusual.”

Though Beric still absently nodded, it didn't seem like he had paid much attention to the words. He inspected a vegetable on his fork from all sides, then simply shrugged and ate it. “Maybe,” he gave back, unconcerned. “Must be the fair weather or the fresh air at sea.”

Before Thoros could make another attempt at explaining his worries, a large, ragged shadow fell through the door and it explained Jalabhar's long absence at first sight. The feathers of his cape were no longer tangled and sticking together, his head was clean-shaven and brightly reflected the sun until he entered the shade of the room.

“Where have you been for so long?” Thoros welcomed him on the table, Beric paused in awe and studied Jalabhar as if he was seeing him for the first time.

“Found a barber first thing,” Jalabhar nonchalantly answered. “I can hardly walk around looking like a savage and expect to be treated with respect when I make arrangements.” He glanced over the plates and picked up a grilled chicken wing Beric and Thoros had left untouched. “And it paid out,” he cut Thoros off right when he opened his mouth. “Not only have I spoken to the pottery merchant, I also arranged for an audience at the temple. When a foreign prince asks to see Lady Sandrine, the waiting time is surprisingly short.” He pulled a rolled up scroll out of his robes and placed it between the plates on the table. “And I bought a map of the city. The barber recommended certain markets, bathhouses and taverns. This should make finding them a lot easier than relying on your spotty memory.”

Thoros swallowed his retort about that last remark and instead opened the map while Jalabhar took a bite from the seized chicken. “When can we see Lady Sandrine?” he asked after studying the map and pinpointing their current location on it.

“Tomorrow at midday,” Jalabhar said, chewing. “Where's Ser Danyal? We need to buy the three of you some intact clothes at the nearest market. A royal entourage shouldn't be wearing rags.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“We need to go east.”

Beric looked up from his compass and tried to walk down the crowded path between the colorful stalls of the market, but Thoros' hand on his shoulder held him up. East of them were more merchants, no difference there than in any other direction, and there was nothing in particular Beric wanted to buy. He had merely taken a liking to this phrase he had picked up from the captain, repeatedly answering questions about their route to Myr.

“We will go east,” Thoros calmly assured him. “But we agreed that we wouldn't split up, so we need to wait for Danyal and Jalabhar first.” He guided Beric toward the stall where their companions inspected the wares of a merchant, going through a selection of capes, cloaks and scarves. “Why don't we take a look at what this man is selling?” he suggested. “You could use a new cloak yourself, yours is even more battered than mine.” Beric paused and considered that for a moment, tugged his cloak, then appraisingly regarded Danyal and stepped closer to the table holding the wares. Another glance to Danyal followed, he was comparing the fabrics of two crimson red capes, and Beric began doing the same. It looked like he merely mimicked Danyal's behavior, felt the material, inspected the workmanship on the seams and the collar, but had no actual interest in either of the items. Unsurprisingly, since both were scarves made from the same green silk. At least he wasn't trying to take the entire stall apart, so Thoros let him be and began browsing the merchandise himself. “Take a look at this,” he called Beric over after a while, holding up a black velvet cloak embroidered with silver stars on the shoulders. “It's like it was made just for you, don't you think?”

Judging by his expression, Beric agreed, but then a hint of skepticism flashed in his eyes. “I have a perfectly good cloak, I don't need another.” He came closer nonetheless and felt the velvety fabric. “You gave it to me for my name day. Did you forget that already?”

“I remember,” Thoros replied and reached for the tattered edge of the cloak Beric wore. “That's the one looking like it fell victim to a shadowcat's claws.” He held the starry cloak closer to Beric. “Here, try it on. If it suits you I'll buy it and we'll call it an early gift for your next name day.” This lightened up Beric's face and he immediately tore the ripped cloak off his shoulders, took the one Thoros held out to him and put it on. “See? Now you're looking like a proper lord again,” Thoros noted. He didn't wait for a comment from Beric. It was clear enough he liked the cloak by the way his hands brushed over velvet, so Thoros turned to the merchant and Jalabhar to let them know about the purchase.

The brief moment of inattention was enough for Beric to attempt an escape. When Thoros looked back to where he had stood, Beric was already on his way to a large group of people who had gathered around a small, wooden stage. A man in bright orange robes stood in the middle, addressing the crowd in front of him. The loud, hasty staccato and the man's quick gestures suggested that this was an auction, slaves, livestock or large quantities of imported goods. Thoros followed Beric as fast as he could. The last thing they needed was him unknowingly bidding on a herd of cattle or lecturing the auctioneer about the despicable nature of slavery amidst a busy market.

 

“Maybe we should have gone to a bathhouse first.” Danyal and Jalabhar caught up with Thoros just when he had contained Beric and held him in place a good distance away from the stage. “I didn't expect it would be _this_ crowded. Now I'm thinking we should have come here later when the worst of the bustle has died down.”

“Died down?” Thoros laughed and shook his head. “It won't die down in the evening, it will only get worse. The markets change face after dark, more merchants will join the ones already here and peddle different goods once the heat of the day has left the alleys. You'll see fish, produce and wares people rather not ask about during daylight then, as soon as the evening has cooled the air.”

Danyal was about to reply, but the noise of the bidders by the stage picked up all of a sudden and drowned out his words. The chatter in various tongues and accents grew louder, arms were raised and the auctioneer spoke even faster than before. “If we want to buy a goat we should head over there,” Danyal suggested. That got Beric's attention in an instant, he turned away from the stage and Thoros nodded his silent thanks to Danyal for the gallant distraction. A group of five slaves had been led to the auctioneer and it was better to not let Beric see them. Whether he'd parrot Captain Yörb's stance on the matter or offer his own opinion, it wouldn't go over well with this crowd.

The purchase of a goat had gone smoothly, much to Thoros' surprise. Beric had taken note of the constant chatter and haggling in foreign tongues around them and decided that Jalabhar should do the talking, at least that was what Thoros thought at the time. Once the business was concluded it became clear that the language barrier hadn't been on Beric's mind at all. Jalabhar's colorful robes had led Beric to believe he was a merchant as well, so he had left the negotiations to someone who he thought knew all tricks of the trade. While the newly inaugurated 'merchant prince' found the notion amusing, Thoros took it as a signal to leave the busy market. The scents of exotic herbs and spices, the unfamiliar way people spoke and dressed, the presence of countless barrels and crates filled with all too curious trinkets, it was taking a toll on Beric and he needed a break from these confusing impressions.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Their way had led to a bathhouse the barber had recommended earlier and their hopes had not been disappointed at first. The orange shades of sunset were falling over the city and the approaching evening drew more people to the markets, leaving taverns, alehouses and other shelters from the day's heat less crowded at this hour. Only a handful of visitors was present in the large sandstone hall of the bathhouse, a pricier one that was frequented by the wealthy elite of the city. The cool air was inviting and the shimmering water in the marble basins promised refreshment, but it didn't find Beric's approval. He had ordered Danyal to escort the 'uninvited strangers' out of the hall and only seemed puzzled when Thoros explained that these strangers had the same right to be here; they had paid the fee for admission as well. Since Beric couldn't be swayed, Thoros forfeited further attempts at persuasion and took Beric, their goat, and a handful of coins back to the inn.

The privacy of their rented room and the bathtub in its nook were more to Beric's liking, and for a short while Thoros enjoyed his break. He had just opened the windows to let the cool evening air in when Beric's voice from the other side of the curtain called him back to duty.

“Is the bowl of fruit still on the table?”

Thoros turned around and shot an incredulous glare at the curtain. “You can't possibly be hungry again,” he replied. “We had a feast before we left for the market and you tried every sample merchants offered you once we got there.” He strolled to the table by the door and found the bowl, but left it untouched. Instead he took his time lighting a candle though the room was still shrouded in dusky twilight, and nursed the futile hope Beric would realize he was acting strange.

For a moment there was silence, just the distant noise from the streets drifted by in the evening breeze outside the window. “I only want the peach if it's still there,” came a sheepish, yet defiant answer, then it was quiet again for a while. “If Danyal ate it we could go back to the market and buy another,” Beric then began, much too eager and intrigued by the idea for Thoros' taste.

“It's still here,” he admitted defeat and picked up the peach. He went to the curtain and stepped through it, then knelt down on the floor next to the tub. “You can have it, but only if you listen to me first and don't brush me off.”

Beric looked up from the sponge he had been inspecting as if he had never seen such a curious object. Before Thoros knew it, the sponge dropped into the water and Beric snatched the peach from his hand. “You don't have to worry about me,” he said, looking at Thoros with innocent eyes. “We'll give the Red God a goat tomorrow. He'll take care of all our needs, you just need to have faith.”

“See, that's why I'm worried.” Thoros crossed his legs to sit more comfortably on the floor. “As strange as it sounds, coming from a red priest, I'm still mistrustful of the Lord. He brought you back from the darkness of death, he sent us a ship that took us to our destination, I have no doubts about the Lord's power, not at all.” He ran his fingers through Beric's wet hair as if to emphasize his peaceful intentions. “But he didn't make you _right,_ he left you like _this._ You keep forgetting where you are, you mix up names and places. Maybe the herbalist is right and it will wear off over time, but I can't help wondering if something went wrong with the resurrection. If it's somehow my fault and not even the Red God can fix it.”

Beric had been about to take a bite, but hearing Thoros' voice crack made him pause. He regarded Thoros for a long, silent moment with quizzical concern in his eyes, then slowly offered the peach to him.

“No, it's fine.” Thoros slightly shook his head and ruffled Beric's wet hair. He meant well, tried to adjust the behavior that worried his friend, Thoros understood and appreciated the gesture, but it did nothing to calm his troubled mind. “We'll make the sacrifice tomorrow and speak to a healer,” he said, more to himself. “Perhaps you're right and I should have more faith in our god.”

“I admit you're not entirely wrong either.” Beric fished for the sponge, then appraisingly compared it to his peach. “Myr is quite strange and confusing, but I'd rather be alive and puzzled than dead and buried at sea.”

The unwittingly blunt remark conjured a small smile up on Thoros' face. “You're most certainly right,” he corrected his previous statement. “What I really need might be a lesson in gratitude rather than faith.”

 


	21. Winter's Widows

“Are the rooms prepared?” Leiff opened the door to one of the guest chambers and peeked inside as if there was a risk to disturb the room's order with his presence. “Clean linen on every bed? Fresh water in the basins? Enough timber for the hearths?” His mother nodded and waited if he'd enter to see for himself, but Leiff turned on his heel and went back to the stairs. “Good, the stables are prepared for more horses as well,” he said. “Would a stuffed goose be an appropriate main course for the feast? As crafty as the cook is, I'd rather not have him improvise again. We restocked the pantry only a few weeks ago, we don't need it to fall into disarray because the cook is in a hurry.”

Before Lady Hannah could answer, a gate fell shut with a loud thud and Harrion's voice, talking to another hunter, drew Leiff's attention downstairs. The men were out of breath and not supposed to be here, they had only left Frostspear Hall in the morning and it was barely noon. Maester Faelan's voice joined the agitated conversation and what Leiff heard made him rush down the stairs.

“My lord, Lady Dustin's party has been sighted,” Harrion greeted him, still catching his breath. “It is much larger than anticipated, a small army, people say.”

Leiff stared at him like frozen for a moment, then he gathered himself and turned to the maester. “Call the stable master, the guard captain and the cook to the solar,” he said, then looked up the stairs. “Mother? We'll need more rooms, tell the maids their work isn't done yet.”

“I don't think we will.” Harrion removed the fur-lined hood from his head and handed his bow to the second hunter. He hesitated, but Leiff's demanding glare jumped back to him from the maester and Harrion continued. “They were seen a day's ride from the Hearthstone Inn and named this as their destination to a group of hunters.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Leiff gave back. “The inn is tiny and can't accommodate more than six guests over night. A 'small army' won't even fit in the common room all at once. Why would they take a detour through the Sheepshead Hills instead of making camp in a larger ruin by the banks of the White Knife?” He paused as the realization sank in and he stared at Harrion for a long, silent moment. “Because they are not going to see Lord Umber,” he got out.

Harrion nodded, though he, too, seemed puzzled about this turn of events. “I suppose Lady Dustin might have heard the rumors about Eddard Karstark's mysterious illness and rides for Karhold to find out the truth. Or perhaps...” He didn't get further. Leiff whirled around and frantically gestured to a servant.

“Bring me my riding coat and saddle the horses!” He turned back to Harrion, now with a determined look on his face. “You'll come with me. We'll ride for the Hearthstone Inn right away. I'm not going to let our best chance to find out what's going on pass by so easily.”

 

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The smoke from the Hearthstone Inn's chimney could be seen from the distance and the evening breeze carried the chatter of voices down the western road. It was little more than a trampled path that avoided the more treacherous outcroppings and sharp edges, calling it a 'road' was a bold overstatement. However, today the area had seen enough travelers to make it seem as busy as the docks of White Harbor. The crowd gathered around the Hearthstone Inn dwarfed the building, as if the quaint, little cottage needed help looking small. When Leiff and his companions came closer they became aware of the camp's somewhat peculiar nature. Many of the horses wore makeshift saddles, there were mules and donkeys among them, commonly used for work rather than as mounts. There was also a distinct lack of banners between the simple tents and only few of the people sitting around the fires displayed coats of arms. Going strictly by numbers, there were enough men to besiege a small castle, but this ragtag band was most certainly not an army.

Leiff dismounted his horse, handed the reins to a guard and looked around for familiar faces. Near the building he spotted the fir green banner of House Nosser, but when he walked closer he only found a handful of guards around the fire. Lord Edmon Nosser owned a small patch of land on the banks of the White Knife, and his apparent presence here added another layer to the riddle this gathering was. His castle was too far up north for Lady Dustin to have passed through. The same was true for Lord Tonoryn Pelsen whose modest keep was located west of the Hornwood, it would have taken a different detour to get there. The most obvious hint at this not being an army, however, was the one Harrion addressed when he caught up with Leiff.

“This is the strangest army I've ever seen,” he noted, looking across the sprawling camp. “Not that I've seen many, but if you hadn't shown me the letter I'd think the maester of Barrowton made another mistake. It doesn't look like he announced the arrival of his lady to every house in the North, but requested various houses to send a lady to him.”

“And gave them all wrong directions to boot,” Leiff added. “This is a strange 'army' indeed. Riding work horses, armed with pitchforks and hatchets, and the women they travel with don't look like whores.” He opened the door of the Hearthstone Inn. “Stay with the horses,” he ordered the guards, then turned around and looked at Harrion. “You're with me. Hopefully we'll find the answers we seek in there.”

 

The familiar faces Leiff hadn't found outside were in the common room, accompanied by several strangers. He recognized the lords Nosser and Pelsen among the people sharing the largest one of the three tables, along with two women. Leiff hadn't seen either of them before, but he could guess who they were. The stockier one was probably Lady Anyta Ashwent, the large scar running across the right cheek gave her away. She had sustained it in a bandit attack when she was a young girl, and the gruesome keepsake had prevented her from finding a husband. Leiff recalled his mother had told this cautionary tale to Wynne and Dayana whenever they complained about their father leaving to fend off wildling attacks with men from Last Hearth. The tall, slender woman next to Lady Ashwent wore her greying brown hair in a widow's knot and she was dressed all in black. No doubt, this was Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton, the woman Leiff had come to see.

The group at the table only looked up when Lord Pelsen directed their attention to the new arrivals. Lady Dustin leaned over to him, briefly exchanged whispers, then her stern expression softened and she motioned Leiff to approach. “Lord Warryng,” she welcomed him matter-of-factly. “Apologies for the confusion. I presume you were misinformed about my coming as well, and I sincerely hope it didn't cause you too much trouble.”

“Lady Dustin, it is an honor to meet you,” Leiff politely replied. “I was indeed advised that you'd visit Frostspear Hall...” He paused when Lord Nosser gestured to the empty chair next to him. “Many travelers have been passing through in recent weeks, so the preparations would have been made either way, it was no bother at all,” Leiff said when he had sat down. “However...” His gaze cautiously wandered across the people gathered around the table, trying to gauge their stance on the issue he was about to broach. When nobody interjected and they instead intently listened, Leiff continued. “These travelers have also brought conflicting rumors to my ears, voices of discontent with Lord Stark's order.”

“Discontent...” Lady Dustin almost seemed to sneer as she echoed the word. “Voices of reason, that's what they are.”

“We've lost a good part of the last harvest to hail and rain.” Lady Ashwent watched the ale she sloshed around in her mug, then looked up to Leiff. “That would not have happened if the farmhands had been on the fields instead of being sent to the Wall.” She hastily poured down the ale, perhaps to keep calm since the subject clearly upset her. “Those were good, honest men,” she added and huffed. “Yet they were 'rewarded' with a sentence proper for thieves and murderers for their good, honest work!”

“And my bastard won't go!” Lord Pelsen coughed into his ancient fist after this sudden outburst. “My firstborn is a dimwit, that's not a secret,” he went on, now more moderate in temper and volume. “We're good people, we keep him warm and fed, but I'd rather burn down the castle than pass it down to a man with the wits of a goat. The maesters said he wouldn't outlive me, so I exercised patience. Waited for the poor sod to pass away in his sleep before I'd legitimize my bastard and let him rule in my stead.” His old, foggy eyes stared at the table, Lord Pelsen seemed to be far away in his mind. “Didn't want to upset Hannon,” he added, his voice now wavering as he spoke. “He's not fond of change, acts out if things aren't the same around him.” He returned to the here and now from his brief mental absence and looked at Leiff as if he owed him an explanation. “I can't comply with Winterfell's order. I must disobey. For the sake of my son and for the sake of the people I can't let him rule.”

“It's like the great houses conspire against us!” Lord Nosser took over, speaking louder and more firmly than the old man next to him. “First my carpenter ran off to White Harbor, then half of the woodcutters were sent to the Wall!” He regarded Leiff with furtive eyes for a moment. “Your lands lie even closer to the Gift than mine. You, too, must have noticed that there are no 'increased attacks' that would justify the extreme measures Lord Stark saw fit. My men haven't found a single wildling in weeks!”

Leiff quickly glanced to Harrion who waited by the door, his eyes respectfully lowered, but he listened closely to the ongoing discussion. “There have been no attacks on my lands either,” Leiff turned back to the gathered lords and ladies. “My hunters found wildlings, but never more than a handful and they all were unarmed.”

Lady Dustin nodded along while listening and her expression betrayed that she learned nothing new. Lord Nosser had probably told her about his situation and Leiff's answer only confirmed what she already knew. “What are your thoughts about sending all these men to the Wall, Lord Warryng?” she asked, her voice surprisingly soft for the stern expression. “Do you think there is a need to re-garrison the abandoned castles at this time? Have you complied with Winterfell's order?”

For a moment, Leiff considered what he should tell her, if he should mention specific rumors or his own gut feeling. It was obvious what Lady Dustin wanted to hear and that her companions were in agreement about it. _And so am I_ , Leiff realized, straightened his back and cleared his throat. “Lord Umber wrote that this is a chance of gaining a foothold and fend off future attacks,” he began. “That the lack of attacks might herald a large wildling army, a new king-beyond-the-wall. But I'm not convinced. Something is amiss, though I don't know what it is. Still, I have sent the few men I could spare to the Wall, my lady.” He cleared his throat again and looked Lady Dustin in the eye. “But my brother had already departed for Oldtown when I received the order, and I have made no attempt to call him back.”

There was a flash of irritation at the mention of Oldtown, but it didn't linger on Lady Dustin's face. “Lord Umber...” There was slight indignation in her voice now and it, too, didn't last. “He finally got what he wanted, of course he wouldn't reveal that stronger defenses are not needed as urgently as he claimed for years.” She glanced to Lord Nosser. “You are not wrong, it does seem like certain houses conspire. Umber, Karstark, Glover, the same vague replies to our letters, yet they speak a clear language.”

Leiff furrowed his brow as she mentioned the names. “So you have not come to speak to Lord Karstark either?” he concluded. “Frankly, I was hoping you would and get the answers I sought to no avail.”

Lady Dustin shook her head and waved the tavern wench over, as the girl had hovered in a respectful distance with a full tray for a while. “I have come for answers, but Karhold or Last Hearth is not where I hope to find them.” Leiff noticed slight discomfort on the faces around the large table and the realization dawned on him just when Lady Dustin said it out loud. “I'm headed for the Dreadfort to see the only man who did not try to fob me off with polite, hollow phrases. Lord Bolton is looking for answers as well. He has agreed to receive me and discuss the matter. You're welcome to join my band of seekers.”

 

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“Have we lost our minds? What are we doing here?”

Harrion cautiously looked around, from the snow-covered banks of the Weeping Water to the makeshift camp outside the foreboding walls of the Dreadfort. With their triangular merlons the towers of House Bolton's seat looked like the crown of a demon king carved from stone, and the sparse vegetation gave the impression that even the northern forest shied away from this haunted place. Harrion's discomfort was shared by the small group that stood outside a nearby tent and warmed their hands on a fire. Lady Hardbrooke had joined her brother, Lord Nosser, in the morning when the party had departed from the Hearthstone Inn. Her husband was nowhere to be seen, but she was accompanied by several guards and a dozen more men that appeared to be hunters and craftsmen.

“Maybe we have,” Leiff answered the question that still lingered in the cold air like a cloud of their breath. “But we need answers and we are not alone in that quest. It isn't only a strange gut feeling anymore. All these people are here for the very same reason. They all think something is amiss.” He glanced over his shoulder to the bleak walls of the castle and the narrow tunnel to the gate Lady Dustin had disappeared through what felt like a lifetime ago.

The snow scrunched under their steps as they crossed the short distance to Lord Nosser's fire where the conversation among the lords and ladies revolved around the same subject. “I had considered it,” Lady Hardbrooke answered an unheard question just when Leiff and Harrion arrived. “My husband urged me to not write to Lord Bolton. He didn't think the remote chance for an answer was worth the risk. It would only draw attention to our delayed reaction to Lord Stark's order, he said.” She regarded her brother for a moment, looking almost ashamed when she continued. “We've tried it in the past, separating the boys. I know, it isn't quite normal, but they fall ill when they're apart.”

“Twins,” Lord Nosser explained to the listeners. “I took one of them into fosterage, but only for one short week. He arrived pale and weak, a shadow of the boy I knew from my visits. Didn't eat, didn't sleep, didn't speak except to ask for his brother.” He cleared his throat and exchanged a glance with Lady Hardbrooke. “His brother displayed the same strange behavior, my sister told me about it in a letter. I took the boy home to see for myself. And within a day of their reunion they both recovered.” He glanced over the tents of the camp and the groups standing around fires, though his gaze avoided the looming shape of the Dreadfort. “But what choice do we have? Our letters to every other great house went unanswered, there is nobody else left we can turn to instead. Lady Dustin alone was willing to lend an ear to our concerns. All we can do now is hope she knows what she's doing.”

“Of course she does,” Lady Ashwent interjected. “She wouldn't have led us here if she had reason to mistrust Lord Bolton. His late wife was her sister, she fostered his son.” She turned around, crossed her arms and defiantly stared to the towers, as if she wanted the Dreadfort to know she was not afraid. “Lord Bolton might be the only one who won't palm us off with vague excuses. Secretive, perhaps, but he is not known for licking the boots of House Stark.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” Lord Pelsen sighed and though he gazed in the same direction, his old eyes seemed to stare right through the thick towers and walls. “Lord Leech lost his bite since the death of his son. Used to pester me for years about legitimizing my bastard, told me to hurry and get it done before my own time runs out.” His hand was shaking from age rather than cold when he took the mug of mulled wine one of the guards brought to him. “You'd think such matters would be on his mind more than ever, now that his own bastard lives under his roof. Yet not a single letter has come since he buried Domeric's bones.”

Leiff had quietly listened to the conversation of the older lords and ladies. Now they fell silent and let their concerns linger while Lord Pelsen's guard passed out mugs of mulled wine. The first sip stung on his lips when Leiff drank and the vapor of the hot wine obscured his view on the tall walls of the castle. Maybe, he thought, the answers he sought were really in there, echoed through damp, dark hallways, only waiting to be heard. Maybe the rumors of flayed men and torture chambers in secret dungeons had clouded his judgement. Maybe, if he only looked past these tales of terror, the answers would be right there, in plain sight.

And if this was another dead end, maybe the people gathered here would at least be spared from Lord Bolton's wrath. He certainly wouldn't be pleased to learn that his bannermen had approached other great houses and avoided the man they had sworn fielty to. Seeking an audience with him after all other leads had been exhausted was still less an offense than pretending he didn't exist. As far as Leiff could tell Lady Ashwent was the only noble who had traveled here from the Barrowlands with Lady Dustin, everyone else had joined them along the way and lived on Bolton lands.

Leiff's pondering regarding which group of commoners had come from which place ended abruptly when the gate of the Dreadfort opened like the maw of a beast. All eyes turned to the castle, murmurs emerged between the tents and around the fires, a wave of anticipation of Lady Dustin's return swept through the camp. But it was not Lady Dustin who stepped through the gate. It was a man, tall and clad in the colors of House Bolton, and he briskly strode forward, apparently about to address the gathered crowd.

“Lord Bolton will receive you now!” the man yelled once he had taken position outside the gate. “Lords, ladies, whoever speaks for a village or clan!”

 

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The great hall resembled a crypt with its vaulted ceiling, the blackened rafters and wafting smoke from torches held by skeletal hands. The emptiness of the room only added to this impression. Every step of the small group had echoed between long tables where nobody sat, no servants scurried about and even the guards lining the hallway were stern and silent like statues. Lady Dustin's reserved demeanor had stood out among the more talkative party during the journey, but in this foreboding vault she was the sole beacon of life. She sat at the high table on the dais, to her left a tall, dour man in grey steel armor and next to him three empty chairs. On the other side, there were empty seats as well, then a pallid, fat man with wide-set eyes who wore the chain of a maester. In the middle, between the maester and Lady Dustin, Lord Roose Bolton sat enthroned, completing the taciturn welcome committee.

Leiff had not met Lord Bolton in many years, but he wasn't surprised to see the man still looked exactly the same as he remembered. As bizarre as the rumored measures of retaining his youth sounded, evidently the Leech Lord's leeches kept their promise and slowed down the passing of time in his smooth, ageless features. His eyes alone betrayed any emotion as they appraisingly gazed at the group standing before the dais, a strange blend of indecisiveness and deep contemplation.

“Where is your brother now?” Roose Bolton's foggy, grey gaze slowly wandered to Leiff and Lord Nosser and only stopped to linger on the former when Lady Dustin barely noticably nodded. “Tell me the truth. And keep in mind that I might already know it.”

 _He cares so little about our affairs that he wasn't sure who is who,_ Leiff realized with bewilderment when he swallowed and stepped forward. “If nothing delayed him on the way, he's in White Harbor or will soon arrive in the city, my lord,” he said after clearing his throat and looking his liege dead in the eye. “He left my lands before Lord Stark gave the order. Six of my guards and hunters went to the Wall, and I didn't have the men to send a rider after my brother.” Since Bolton didn't react and kept looking at him with a stony face, Leiff continued after a brief pause. “I had saved up money for his passage to Oldtown, and the fee to the maesters had already been paid. Even if I could have afforded a messenger, the settlements are deserted because most men went to Castle Black.”

There was a long silence and Lord Bolton's face didn't betray what he thought about Leiff's account. After what felt like an eternity he brought the cup of wine to his thin lips, took a sip and set it back down on the table, just as slowly as he had raised it. “I fear you are mistaken,” he then said with deliberation. “Your brother and the three men who were with him died on the road. Attacked by wild animals, my guardsmen told me. The group was mangled, almost beyond recognition, except for one horse that barely got away and alerted my patrols."

Leiff furrowed his brow, not sure what to make of Bolton's puzzling claim. He looked around and found more confused faces. Everyone present had heard the true story in the Hearthstone Inn, save for Lady Hardbrooke, but Leiff's lack of shock when hearing about the alleged death of his brother certainly let her know it was not true. “What became of the women, my lord?” Leiff cautiously turned back to Lord Bolton. “There were two in my brother's party, and one young girl.”

“There were not,” Bolton firmly gave back. “Only your brother, two more boys, a man and their horses.” His strange gaze wandered to the elderly man standing a few steps next to Leiff. “Lord Pelsen's son led the party, the other two were Lady Hardbrooke's twins. Not a wise choice of a leader, it's well-known that Harron Pelsen has the wits of a rock. Either of the boys would have acted with more foresight and caution.” He arose from his chair and absently reached for the cup. “I'm surprised the halfwit led them in the right direction as far as he did. My men discovered the bodies a day south of the Last River, so I presume they were following Lord Stark's order and were on their way to the Wall.” He wandered around the table, drank the last sip and stepped down from the dais. “This is what happened if anyone asks where your sons and brothers are.” His gaze rested on Leiff once more, if only for a short moment. “Your brother will be out of reach once he sets foot on a ship. As for your sons...” He made a short step toward Lord Pelsen and Lady Hardbrooke. “Have them use different names, send them to a place where their presence won't draw attention or just lock them up. As far as I am concerned you all did your duty and it is nobody's fault they died on the way to the Wall.”

“You aren't punishing our disobedience?” Lady Hardbrooke burst out in utter confusion, and the murmurs around her echoed the sentiment. “You won't condemn one of my sweet boys to the Wall?”

“My lady, I know the pain of losing a son,” Bolton softly replied. “My own boy succumbed to a terrible illness a short while ago, and the loss has opened my eyes in many regards. The North won't be less safe for the lack of four men, but you'll be spared from great suffering if they remain south of the Wall.” His eyes rested on Leiff for an uncomfortably long moment, then he gestured to the guards by the gate. "Bring your people into the courtyard," he said as the gate was opened. "The nights are cold and there's enough room in the barracks and stables since I had to send sixty-eight men to the Wall." He wandered back to the dais, now looking to Lady Dustin. "I will need to sleep on the information you presented today, but I assure you the last word regarding this matter has not been spoken yet."

 

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"I certainly didn't expect this outcome of my visit." Lady Dustin took a sip of hippocras from her cup and wandered to the dimly lit solar's window. "And neither did anyone who traveled with me."

Roose Bolton absently drank from his cup and kept glaring down to the courtyard. Dark outlines of people moved through the mud, snow and gravel, their paths illuminated by flickering torches under the dusky evening sky. "I'm not as indifferent as you expected," he calmly corrected. "You expected I'd answer your questions, and provide insights Lord Stark kept from you." He briefly glanced to her, took a sip from the cup, then turned back to the window. "And between the two of us, I'd have expected to have these answers, but apparently neither of us has earned Eddard Stark's trust."

"I have been as docile and loyal as the past allowed," Lady Dustin gave back, not trying to hide the indignation in her voice. "But enough is enough. The lack of consideration this order betrays can not go unanswered." She was about to say more, but she paused when Roose Bolton turned back to face her.

"And I agree," he said, his tone reassuring. "Don't you think I never tire of being the Great Other to Lord Stark? You know as well as I do that he should value my council, that he should remember House Bolton's strength. Yet I had to learn about plans of a major harbor expansion from the gossip my bastard picked up in taverns. Nobody thought to involve me or the rivers that happen to run through my lands. I don't know more about raids past the Gift than any of the lordlings you brought to me either." He wandered to his desk, then slammed the empty cup onto it with unexpected force. "House Stark has forgotten who I am," he firmly declared when he looked back to Lady Dustin. "They owe me answers as much as you or them," he added, nodding to the window. "Eddard Stark may be deaf to me, but those are too many voices to not be heard."

 


	22. Blessed By Fire

“You could have translated.” Danyal shot a snide glance to Jalabhar, then pulled the rope serving as a leash, trying to direct the goat away from a merchant's display. “Just because I don't understand your Valyrian Gibberish doesn't mean I'm useless. I could have...”

“I was speaking the Summer Tongue,” Jalabhar calmly corrected when the goat's stubborn antics made Danyal pause. “And I agree, your presence was quite useful. Having a foreign sellsword with me lent credibility to my claims of being a wealthy merchant and looking for new opportunities in the Free Cities.”

Danyal, now in control of the goat, rolled his eyes and kept following Thoros and Beric down the wide street. “I'm not a sellsword,” he sharply noted. “And I don't see how your act helped us either. What did those merchants tell a rival that they wouldn't have revealed to their self-proclaimed king?”

“I _am_ the rightful king of the Red Flower Vale,” Jalabhar gave back. “However, my identity might be more of a hindrance than an asset in this case. It is possible that the Targaryen prince figured out someone was reporting about him to Lord Varys. Now he's lost the pursuer and that might make him less careful when discussing his plans. Should he hear that a friend of King Robert is inquiring about his whereabouts and activities in the Free Cities...”

“I think you just enjoy playing spy a little too much,” Danyal cut him off. “I don't understand your Summer Gibberish either, but it didn't look like you made any discoveries last night. Vague rumors the merchants picked up from travelers, you said they didn't even mention a name.”

They reached a large open space in the heart of the city, in its center the enormous Red Temple of Myr. There was a bustle between the fountains and statues, and people kept pouring out onto the temple's yard. The autumn rain had not yet rinsed the dirty alleys and streets, and the air was filled with dry dust and the perpetual smells from the surrounding markets and stores.

“Dragon eggs and silvery hair, seen on the markets of Pentos.” Jalabhar quickly caught up with his companions when they proceeded through the busy crowd outside the temple. “Who else could it be?”

“A wealthy collector from Lys,” Danyal promptly suggested. “The blood of Old Valyria runs deep there and I doubt Viserys Targaryen is the only man with fair hair in Pentos.” He stopped in the shade of a tall statue where Thoros tried to snatch the compass from Beric's hand and convince him that the temple right in front of them was impossible to miss. When Danyal and Jalabhar didn't aid his effort and just watched the scene play out with expectant eyes, Thoros sighed and directed his attention to them.

“It might be a lead,” he admitted and the words conjured a triumphant smile up on Jalabhar's face. “ _Might_ be.” Thoros finally got hold of the compass, his previous monologue had led to a delayed reaction and Beric now stared up to the temple in awe. “We were told the Targaryen prince was last seen in Pentos,” Thoros continued. “It's not impossible that he somehow obtained such pricy trinkets, after all he took refuge in a city of merchants and was sheltered by a wealthy magister.” He briefly nodded to Danyal. “Still, he has a point, we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. First, we'll take care of our business in the temple, that's why we were sent to Myr. We'll see what can be done about tracking the dragon later.”

 

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The hall of the temple was larger than Thoros remembered. Perhaps it had been expanded, perhaps his sense of dimension was skewed from spending years in the great halls of Westeros' castles. It was less crowded in here than out in the yard, though the temple felt by no means abandoned. Small groups stood between the tall columns, waiting for audiences and appointments with scribes and priests, surrounded the flat platforms with fire pits and altars, listened to preachers or watched their sacrifices being prepared for the Red God. Others were wandering around to admire the displayed artwork, statues of warriors, tapestries showing scenes from the temple's history, stone carvings of prayers, figures and artifacts sitting on well-guarded pedestals. The flickering of a thousand fires filled the hall with a pulsating glow and made the temple seem like a living being that drew breath with each beat of its fiery heart.

“Keep an eye on Beric,” Thoros turned to his companions when he saw a servant approach their position, then sighed when neither of them seemed to listen. Jalabhar had wandered off a few steps and absently studied a display of ceremonial weapons, Danyal stood next to Beric near a column, but paid no attention to him. Instead, his eyes followed three temple prostitutes who had emerged from a hallway and now swayed toward a platform on the far side of the hall. “Jalabhar!” This time, Thoros got a reaction, Jalabhar strolled back to his group with a nonchalant expression.

“Not quite what I expected,” he noted, slightly wrinkling his nose. “You'd think foreign dignitaries would not have to wait this long for an appointed audience. At first, I feared they'd never take the smelly goat off our hands.”

Thoros shot him a reprimanding glare, grabbed Beric's shoulder and pulled him away from his all too close up inspection of a tapestry, almost touching the fabric with his nose. “A large temple like this welcomes foreigners and dignitaries on a daily basis,” Thoros said, glancing to the servant, now coming closer on his way through the center of the hall. “The only one who stands a chance at receiving special treatment is a fellow red priest who happens to know the Priestess Provost.” He sighed when he saw the trio of temple prostitutes had stopped in a short distance and invitingly smiled at Danyal. “Keep him away from the whores,” Thoros hastily added in Valyrian when the servant waved him over. “And keep Beric away from the fragile pieces of art. I'll ask for a healer, just keep everyone away from everything in the meantime. We don't need further distractions!”

He followed the servant toward a door leading to parts of the temple that were not open for the public. The quarters of priests, servants, guards, prostitutes, and acolytes could be found there, along with chambers for private audiences, worship and study. Before he went through the heavy door the servant had opened, Thoros shot a glance over his shoulder to his companions. Hopefully, Jalabhar would cherish his temporary charade as a royal guard as much as he liked posing as a king or a merchant.

 

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"There are quite a few 'foreign princes' passing through the city in recent weeks." Sandrine absently rearranged a bowl of smoldering incense on one of the few small tables on the long corridor. She had changed very little since Thoros' last visit. Her smooth, olive skin still gave her an almost youthful appearance, only a few subtle wrinkles and a faint touch of silver in the wavy, black mane gave hints to her true age. "Sometimes I wonder how all these supposed kingdoms prevail if their monarchs would rather travel the world to visit temples than rule their own lands." She waited for the servant to leave, then gestured to Thoros to follow her through a door leading to her study.

"My apologies for the ruse." Thoros took a vague bow while Sandrine went to her heavy wooden desk, decorated with so many tomes, candles and braziers that it resembled an altar. "I don't have weeks to wait around for an audience and you know I wouldn't have returned for idle chatter after all those years."

Sandrine's expression, something between indignance and amusement, was exactly the way he remembered, even though it had been over a decade since they had last met. "No, you wouldn't have returned if this wasn't an urgent matter," she gave back with a slight sneer. "You've made quite a life for yourself in the Seven Kingdoms." The contempt left her voice when she continued and that caught Thoros off guard. "You're resourceful," Sandrine said to his surprise. "Calling yourself a 'prince' seems like an overstatement, but it doesn't diminish the accomplishment of becoming a trusted friend of the king. Frankly, I hadn't expected anything to come out of the extension of your mandate after the Rebellion."

"I didn't call myself a 'prince'," Thoros set things straight. "There is a real prince in my party and he made the arrangements." He was about to explain, but Sandrine huffed and it was enough to shut him up. It felt as if it was a lifetime ago that she had been his teacher, but old habits died hard.

"A claim not much less preposterous," she noted and leaned back in her elaborate armchair. "As far as I know, there's a queen ruling the Red Flower Vale and this 'real prince' has no more of a kingdom than the one who paid me a visit a few weeks ago." She sighed. "At least I trust you're not here to try to sell me some trinkets for exorbitant prices." The remark gave Thoros pause, but Sandrine moved on to more pressing matters right away. “So what did bring you here? If your conversion attempts had been fruitful you'd have brought a king, not a prince. Is it the coming of winter then? Does your generous host seek the comfort of fire in the face of the Long Night?”

“The man who sent me here does,” Thoros gave back. “He was not too forthcoming about what exactly he's seeking though. Answers, I suppose, as he asked me to find him a scholar. Someone with insights into the recent surge of 'miracles' sweeping through the Free Cities, and knowledge about the old tales pertaining to the Long Night.” He took a deep breath and let himself sink into the chair in front of the desk. “Fiery visions and my parlor tricks during tourneys don't fool him. I was sent here because he knows I can't give him the answers he seeks. He's cut from a different wood than his brother.”

“His brother?” Sandrine raised her eyebrows and she appraisingly regarded Thoros for a short while. “Are you alluding to the king's brother? You are not acting as envoy for Robert I. Baratheon, but his kin?”

Thoros nodded, not sure how to interpret Sandrine's reaction. Was she disappointed because even bystanders could tell her student stood no chance at ever converting a king? Did it exceed her expectations that the request for her counsel came from the royal family nonetheless? “Lord Stannis Baratheon sent me,” Thoros finally said. “He's the crown's master of ships and sits on the Small Council with your old pal Pycelle.”

Sandrine's expression upon hearing the name was easy to read. “Pycelle.” She sneered and shook her head, making the long, golden earrings she wore slightly jingle. “He's made 'demands' lately, for the 'new cures' he thinks our healers discovered. Herbs, oils, ointments, tinctures, potions, draughts, philtres, balms, tonics, elixirs, lotions, he tried every phrase under the sun. As if putting a different word on the list of his usual orders would break my supposed resistance and make me sell him my 'secrets' all of a sudden.” She scoffed and vaguely gestured to a stack of bundled scrolls. “It put quite a strain on what used to be a good business relation.”

“Lord Stannis mentioned this,” Thoros said. “Pycelle urged him to be wary of the 'rise of witchcraft' in Essos, but Lord Stannis thinks there's a much simpler explanation for the grudge. He thinks Pycelle fears the competition of foreign healers, falling behind and being deemed obsolete. I believe he also suspects the maesters are withholding information from him, not only regarding this matter, though it appeared to be his primary concern. He seemed pleased when I told him I know Pycelle's trade contact in Myr, that he might get his answers straight from the source.” He paused and waited, but Sandrine remained quiet and let him continue. “If you are accepting the invitation to the Red Keep, of course. I know you are very busy, but...”

“I will.” Sandrine got up from her chair and came around the desk. “Though neither Lord Stannis nor Grand Maester Pycelle might like the answers I have. There are no 'new cures', no 'recent discoveries', and there's no witchcraft at play.” She wandered back to the door, not to leave, but to take a long-necked carafe from a shelf. Thoros recognized the deep red content at first sight, pomegranate juice with a dash of orange, spiced with cinnamon and dried red peppers. Sandrine had always been fond of this strange concoction and jokingly called it 'Rhllor's Nectar', a sentiment only few residents of the temple had shared in Thoros' youth. “It is Rhllor's call to arms,” Sandrine continued. She picked up two crystal glasses and returned to her desk. “The Great Other is waking and the Lord of Light is granting health, courage and strength to his army, paving their road to victory through the Long Night.”

“Lord Stannis told me to bring him someone with answers,” Thoros gave back, skeptically eyeing the dreadful carafe. “He didn't say which answers he wants to hear. If he dislikes your conclusions, he can always send for another scholar with another opinion.” He took the glass Sandrine had filled and nonchalantly pushed toward him, drank a sip and set it back down on the desk. “Just as awful as I remembered,” he noted. “And regarding Pycelle...” He cringed when Sandrine emptied her glass with relish, but quickly continued his thought. “I don't think there's a thing in the world the old grump likes, save for young whores and old wine. Never thanked me for making the arrangements with you, and from what I understand it has been beneficial for both parties. If you tell him something he doesn't want to hear, all the better. Lord Stannis might be just as grumpy, but in this matter I'm firmly on his side.”

“What do you make of all this?” Sandrine's voice carried a mildly curious tone, but the way she looked at Thoros over the rim of her glass was more reprimanding than merely appraising. “You must have some kind of thought on the matter, other than slight glee regarding the bad news for Grand Maester Pycelle.” She drank another sip and waited, but no answer came. Instead, Thoros reached for his glass on the desk. “I know your approach to priesthood was always rather...” She hesitated and sighed to herself. “...unconventional. However, I didn't think you'd disregard the Lord's signs altogether. When have you last looked into the fire for guidance?”

 

Thoros drank a sip to win time and consider his words while trying to not grimace at the taste of the weirdly spiced juice. He remembered when he had last looked into the flames, though it would have been a stretch to say he was seeking guidance. It had been a few months ago at Riverrun, he had been quite drunk and at the time it seemed like a splendid idea to entertain equally drunk friends of Edmure Tully with fiery predictions. The most popular one had said Marq Piper, the least sober one of the bunch, would be able to balance a jug of wine on his head and not spill a drop until he had counted to twenty. Ultimately, the Lord had been proven wrong on both accounts. First, Marq Piper had forgotten which number followed 'five', then he had laughed about his own confusion and spilled the wine all over himself. However, this was most certainly not what Sandrine wanted to hear, so Thoros omitted the tale when he answered.

“I never told you the details of my first mandate,” he began and put the glass back on the desk, then pushed it further away. “The Mad King's true madness, what _he_ saw in the fire. Some of the things I had to witness still haunt me to the day.” He paused and cleared his throat, and when Sandrine didn't take the chance to cut him off, he continued. “When I arrived in King's Landing I thought I'd convert him, that it would be easy, that the odds were not stacked against me for once in my life. 'How hard can it be if the man is as obsessed with fire as people say?' I thought. But I soon saw the ugly face of his obsession. He converted me instead of the other way around, he was living proof that fire isn't as good, pure or cleansing as you taught me.” He paused again and carefully studied Sandrine's ambiguous expression, but the dim, flickering light made it hard to gauge her thoughts.

She appraisingly regarded Thoros for a moment, then she gave him a nod. “Please, go on,” she calmly said. “Whatever doubt or heresy you'll confess to, you have my word that it won't leave this room.”

“And so I will,” Thoros gave back with a humorless chuckle. “When the Rebellion put an end to the Mad King's madness, I had long lost the little faith I once had. Then I met the man who had started the rebellion, 'the Usurper', as people called him. I called him a hero.” He took a deep breath and looked Sandrine straight in the eye. It had begun as a diversion, meant to distract from what truly occupied his thoughts, the resurrection, the answers to prayers he could not quite pass off as coincidences to himself. But now it was a confession, he realized, one that was long overdue. “When I asked for an extension of my mandate, I didn't think I could convert him. Nor did I want to. What I wanted, no, what I _needed_ to see was a better man on the throne. I saw a chance in King Robert to at least regain my faith in men, kings, justice and kindness.” Sandrine remained silent and Thoros leaned forward to take his glass back and quickly pour down the disgusting concoction. “I don't disregard the Lord's signs,” he said when he put the empty glass back on the desk, his voice now firm and defiant. “After everything I heard in recent months, how could I deny his existence or power? But I also can't disregard what mortal men did with fire, and that it makes me uneasy to invite it back to the Red Keep.”

The words lingered in the air for a long while, then Sandrine broke the disquiet silence. “It was a fool's errand,” she plainly said. “Aeyrs Targaryen's madness was hardly a secret in the Free Cities. Had you succeeded in converting him, I doubt it would have led to the results the High Priest hoped to see. If the Mad King had begun to burn disbelievers in the name of a foreign god, his subjects would have fled the Seven Kingdoms in droves.” A vague smile played on her lips when she continued, leaving Thoros somewhat puzzled. “Of course, I'm saying that blessed with the wisdom of hindsight.” She emptied her glass and reached for the carafe, Thoros preemptively shook his head in polite refusal. “Things happen for a reason,” Sandrine said while pouring her drink. “The Lord of Light wills it and so it happens. And it appears that he agrees with you in this matter.”

“Agrees with me?” Thoros echoed, still puzzled by Sandrine's reaction. He had expected her to sigh and tell him she knew all along that he never made any serious attempts to convert Robert, express disappointment, resignation, probably both. Her calm and collected demeanor didn't suggest either. On the contrary, she seemed content, even satisfied with what she had heard.

“The Lord of Light saw that converting King Aerys would be a mistake,” Sandrine explained. “You failed because the Lord rejected the Mad King from his army of light. It was never your choice and it would not have made any difference if you had tried harder.” She paused to drink, but held Thoros' gaze, letting him know she had more to say. “And it also makes no difference that you never even tried to convert King Robert. The Lord would not have set you on this path if he saw the seed of madness he rejected before in the new king.” She didn't wait for an answer, instead she poured down the juice in one go and got up from her chair. “When are we leaving for King's Landing? I should make arrangements for the time of my absence before we depart.”

Somewhat stumped by such unwavering conviction, Thoros stood up and went ahead to the door. “My royal companion made the arrangements,” he gave back. “He's waiting outside in the hall with my group. However, there's something else that I would rather discuss in private.” He stepped closer to the door, subconsciously blocking the way, and there was brief hesitation before he spoke. “Both a personal matter and one of faith.”

Sandrine appraisingly regarded him from head to toe and remained by her desk. “I'm listening,” she plainly said and reached for her carafe.

 

“Those miracles people speak of,” Thoros slowly began. “Though you might find it hard to believe, I think I performed one on my journey to Myr. We suffered shipwreck and washed ashore on the Bowbiter Islands, miracle enough that I stand here today.” He cleared his throat, giving Sandrine a chance to interject or ask questions, but she didn't and so Thoros went on with the recount. “One of my friends, the best friend I have in the world, Beric...” He broke off and swallowed, trying to fight back a shudder and failing at it. “Danyal said a rafter came down on him in the captain's cabin when the storm hit the ship, and there was blood on the shore from a wound on his head. But he didn't wake up as Danyal expected.” Again, Thoros paused and fought for composure. “He was dead,” he finally got out. “Beric was dead. And I brought him back to life.”

“A resurrection?” Sandrine seemed intrigued, but her voice lacked surprise or disbelief. “I heard rumors, but no first hand accounts until now.” She sipped from her juice, seemingly unconcerned by what she had heard. “The Lord is becoming stronger and stronger. It will not be the last miracle of this kind.” Thoros stared at her for a long moment, unsure whether she even believed him or not. “Don't tell me you still doubt,” she said when she noticed the blank expression.

“I don't,” Thoros gave back and he meant it. “But I still don't understand the Lord's ways. Why he revealed himself in my darkest hour, sent a miracle and yet...” He left the door and returned to desk, let himself sink into the chair and looked up to Sandrine. “Something went wrong. The Lord granted me incredible power and I didn't know how to use it.” He turned his gaze to the wall behind Sandrine when her brow quizzically furrowed. “I brought Beric back, but he's not the same as before,” he added, uninflected.

“Not the same?” Sandrine echoed. “In what way did he change? Are you suggesting he could be...?” Her voice trailed off, but there was a new curiosity in her eyes.

“No, I am not.” Thoros shook his head as if mere words weren't enough to reject the notion. “There's no eastern blood running in his veins, it can't be.” He looked back from the dancing shadows on the wall to Sandrine. “I paid _some_ attention during my lessons,” he added with a hint of indignation, then he quietly sighed. “Beric is acting strange ever since he opened his eyes. Doesn't sleep well, his surroundings confuse him. He remembers events from the past, but names and dates are often jumbled. We've seen a herbalist, but...” He broke off when he noticed the incredulous look on Sandrine's face.

“The Lord of Light doesn't conspire against you. You are too used to doubting him,” she said. “A falling rafter, even if it hadn't been lethal, would have had the same result. And a resurrection, no matter how expertly performed, doesn't equal a cure. It takes time to recover.” She went toward the door and waited there for Thoros to follow. “Or the hands of a healer blessed by R'hllor.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros sighed to himself when he saw Jalabhar and Beric where he had left them, but there was no trace of Danyal and he spotted only two of the prostitutes, dancing on a platform in the temple's center. “I meant to ask,” he turned to Sandrine. “Would it be possible to keep this between us? People are wary of miracles and magic in the Red Keep and I'm not sure where Lord Stannis stands on this matter. Beric only traveled with me to see the Free Cities, I wouldn't want him to get caught up in this if it can be avoided...” He was about to elaborate, but saved his breath when Sandrine simply nodded.

“Couldn't keep an eye on them both,” Jalabhar whispered when they reached him. “He tried to take one of the ceremonial weapons from its display and I had to calm down the guards.” He glanced to Beric who was watching the flames in a nearby brazier and didn't pay attention to his surroundings.

“It's fine,” Thoros gave back, just as hushed. “I thought it would take longer to explain our mission myself.” He was about to introduce Sandrine, but realized that she no longer stood next to him. She had approached the brazier and appraisingly regarded Beric across the flames.

“It will only take a moment,” she said, went around the brazier and ran her hands over Beric's temples. He didn't seem to mind the strange woman waving her long, red sleeves through his field of vision; he stood still, perhaps trying to figure out what she was doing. “There's barely a scratch left of the wound,” Sandrine noted. “He'd make a full recovery within weeks without my doing.” She paused and glanced to Thoros over her shoulder. “There's something oddly familiar about him though...”

Startled by the realization, Thoros quickly shook his head and motioned her to please remain quiet about the spark of recognition. “You met his father, Lord Ossyn, a few years ago,” he whispered and to his relief, Sandrine replied with a nod and continued in silence. Her slow, flowing motions obscured Beric's face and the ornate sleeves almost seemed alive in the light of the fire. Thoros couldn't tell whether Beric had heard the remark, but either way, this was a discussion for a later time.

“Keep an eye on him,” Sandrine said, her hands hovering above the spot where the bump and the bruise had been. “His body will easily adjust to the sudden recovery, but his mind might need more time.” She looked to Thoros with a brief smile. “Don't worry, he won't relapse into stupor. I merely recommend taking it easy with jousts, swordplay and the like for a while.” She let her arms sink down, turned around and went back to the column. “I presume you can enlighten me regarding the travel arrangements?” she asked, expectantly looking at Jalabhar while Thoros stared through the flames in awe and relief.

For the first time since the _First Daughter's Grace_ had crashed against the rocks of the Bowbiter Islands, the fog had lifted from Beric's eyes. There was clarity and awareness in them, as if his soul had just returned from a far away place.

Thoros shot one quick glance to Jalabhar and Sandrine before he rushed toward Beric and threw his arms around him. “Forgive me, Lord, how could I ever doubt you?” he whispered, scarcely audible to anyone but the flames.


	23. Sins Of The Fathers

“Frankly, in that case I rather stay here.” Beric put up his feet on the bed and leaned back into the stacked, silky pillows. “Seeing slaves go about their work in the streets is one thing, feasting with a man who profits from their misery is another.”

Jalabhar shrugged and grabbed his cape from the backrest of a chair. “It is our best lead,” he said and swiftly draped the cape over his shoulders. “Lady Sandrine couldn't tell whether the man she received was Viserys Targaryen or only claimed to be him. His hair was hidden under a hood and he quickly left when questioned how he came into the possession of supposedly genuine dragon eggs.” Jalabhar tugged the feathers of his collar in front of the wardrobe's tall mirror while he continued to explain. “The man we'll meet tonight has seen him in daylight and, being a collector of rare art and relics, can speak to the authenticity of the merchandise. We need to put our disdain for slavery aside for one evening if we want the information Lord Stannis sent us to find.”

“Lord Stannis didn't send _me_ to find anything.” Beric adjusted his cushions and made himself comfortable on the bed although there was still deep orange evening sunlight falling through the window. “And given a choice I prefer to not make polite conversation with a man who can afford expensive trinkets because he's exploiting the poor.”

Danyal emerged from the nook behind the curtain, rubbed his chin and cheeks with a towel, then threw it over the backrest of the nearest chair. “Did I make myself presentable for nothing?” he asked, somewhat stumped. “We aren't going to feast with the debauched slaver? You could have told me that before I troubled myself to look prim and proper.”

“You could have told me tonight's host is a slaver,” Beric gave back with a reprimanding glare in Jalabhar's direction. “Hadn't his tongue slipped I would still think the man is a merchant or a magister.” He sighed and looked back to Danyal. “It's fine with me if you accompany them. This inn serves good food, I'll eat downstairs. Perhaps leave me some coins, in case I decide to visit the market later. My father's name day is approaching and...” He didn't get further. The door swung open and the unusual sight made Beric pause. Evidently, Thoros had stopped by the market on his way back from the bathhouse as he wore a new, blood-red cloak and a disgruntled expression.

“I hope it looks 'proper' enough for our 'honored' host,” he barked, glaring a hole into Jalabhar's back. “The fabric is much too light and though it looks soft it somehow feels itchy.”

Jalabhar finally turned away from the mirror and appraisingly regarded Thoros from head to toe. “You look like a proper Red Priest for once,” he said, ignoring the gruff tone. “Our host will certainly appreciate that, seeing he's a generous contributor to the temple. I imagine he might see your tattered rags as a sign of disrespect.” He went to the door and waved Danyal over. “Leave the purse with Beric,” he turned back to Thoros. “He's not coming with us and might...”

Thoros' expression softened in slight confusion when he spotted Beric lounging on his bed, then the new cloak came off with one swift motion. “I'll stay with him then,” Thoros said with an air of defiance. “He doesn't mind my 'tattered rags'.” He paused and walked over to the window next to Beric's bed. “I'm not the kind of priest who should represent the temple to a 'generous contributor' anyway,” he added, a bit amused by the probably not too erroneous notion. “Washed out robes are the least of your concerns when it comes to making an impression worthy of continued generous donations.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Jalabhar didn't sound quite as reprimanding as intended, there was the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Your manners are better suited to feasts in the Red Keep. We...” He broke off and watched Danyal swap his cape for the one Thoros had abandoned, but didn't comment on it. “We not only need to winkle the information out of our host, we also need to retain it and that is best done sober.” He also ignored it when Danyal twisted his mouth in quiet disapproval, opened the door and went outside.

 

“I was hoping you'd stay here,” Beric said when the door had fallen shut behind Jalabhar and Danyal. “I could use some spiritual guidance and since I no longer follow the Seven, you have no excuse to deny me such counsel anymore.”

Thoros turned to him from the window with a playful pout, though the feigned indignation hid genuine relief about Beric broaching a serious subject. The events of the past weeks were no joking matter and some of them weighed heavily on Thoros' mind. “I didn't deny you counsel,” he said and sat down on the edge of the bed. “A priest without faith just doesn't have much guidance to offer unless you're asking him for recommendations of wine.” He leaned over to the window and adjusted the curtain, sheltering his eyes from the blinding bright beams of the setting sun. “But I'm no longer faithless, so from now on I'll try my best and maybe we'll figure out the Lord's will together.”

“What should I tell my father if he asks about the journey to Myr?” Beric burst out. “I can't expect him to believe I died and was resurrected by powers granted to you by a foreign god. He'll surely demand a reason for my conversion, but it doesn't seem right to tell him lies just so he won't think I lost my mind.” He sat up and moved to the edge, next to Thoros. “And neither does it seem right to deny the god who saved me from the darkness and led us safely to Myr.”

Thoros thoughtfully regarded him for a moment, then he took a deep breath. “Your father might believe you if you tell him the truth,” he said. “There's something I've been keeping to myself at his behest and it appears the time to break my silence has come.”

“Don't tell me you converted my father in secret.” Beric sounded puzzled, but only half-joking.

“I didn't say it was a 'secret',” Thoros corrected. “Your father _tried_ to be secretive, I figured him out. Just like you, he's a lousy liar. And no, I did not convert him.” He paused to think and find the right words. “Your father didn't visit Myr because he had a sudden desire to travel,” he then began. “And he also didn't want to put your ability to rule to the test, as you suspected. He went on this journey because I threatened to reveal the secret he kept from you and your mother for years if he refused.” Beric was about to say something, but Thoros simply continued. “He suffered from an insidious illness, one maesters, healers, even witches failed to cure. The tea he asked me to procure provided some relief from the symptoms, it was never a sentimental gift for your mother.”

For a long while, Beric stared at Thoros in disbelief and remained silent. “He didn't die on that journey, did he?” he finally got out when he had gathered his thoughts enough to put them into words.

Thoros inched closer, put his arm around Beric's shoulder and shook his head. “No, he didn't die,” he said. “But it was Lady Sandrine who cured his affliction. Your father knew the extend of the Lord's power before either of us even believed he was real.”

Beric considered that for another long, silent moment and looked to window, lost in thought. “Why didn't he tell me?” he then turned back to Thoros. “About the illness, the true reason for his journey. Why did he keep all this from me? Why didn't he trust his son and heir?”

“It wasn't a matter of trust,” Thoros replied. “It was a matter of love. He didn't want to cut your youth short and condemn you to the same fate he suffered. He lived in the shadow of a dying father when he was a young man and he did not want you to carry that burden.” His hand snuck up Beric's back and ruffled his hair. “I knew he was right. You wouldn't have enjoyed your travels and tourneys, had you known about your father's bad health. Still, I didn't agree with the secrecy, so I gave him a choice. I kept quiet under the condition he'd visit Lady Sandrine, and if she hadn't succeeded he would have told you.”

“You don't need to apologize.” Beric leaned his head against Thoros' and quietly sighed. “My father put you in a difficult position and I have no doubt that you had my best interest in mind.” A brief silence followed, Beric watched the setting sun through the window, but his expression was now less pensive. “And I admit he was justified in his concerns. I would have abandoned tourneys and travels, I would have become just like him. Trapped within the walls of Blackhaven, with nothing but duty to keep me company.” A smile played on his lips when he looked back to Thoros. “Your counsel has improved considerably since you regained your faith.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“A rock and a hard place.” Loras skeptically watched Renly trade his soaked shirt for a dry one, seemingly unfazed by the downpour and thunder that had accompanied his arrival. “Though I suppose riding to Oldtown is the lesser evil out of the two.”

Renly smirked and looked up from the lacing of the shirt. “I'm flattered. You prefer my company over your father's! My wildest dreams have come true!” He left the shirt untied and instead opened a wardrobe to go through Loras' boots in search of a pair that would match his coat. “Tell me, how did I finally manage to overcome my arch rival for your attention?”

“I like your way of causing a stir slightly better,” Loras dryly gave back and let himself sink into an upholstered armchair by the window. “Visiting that artist of yours will cheer up my bride-to-be.” He sighed and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. “And posing for a portrait at least means I can sit still, undisturbed by my kin.”

“Is he that bothersome?” Renly abandoned his search for boots and came over, then straddled Loras with a playful pout.

A glare from the depths of the Seven Hells preceded the answer. “But what if it rains?” Loras mocked the tone of his father. “Send for more carpenters and weavers, we need more pavilions and awnings for the gardens! We did not set the date before winter just to retreat into the Great Hall due to bad weather!” He sighed, slumped back in the chair and looked up to Renly with tired eyes. “Satal tried to convince him that rain on a wedding is considered a good omen in Dorne, that it heralds fortune and fertility for the future. But she doesn't possess your wife's silver tongue, and all she achieved was sowing a different seed in father's mind. He now not so subtly talks about the prospect of heirs in the first years of winter, and we both wish his concerns would shift back to awnings and tents.”

“Don't begrudge his excitement.” Renly ran his fingers through Loras' auburn locks. “After the downpour during Ghyslain's naming ceremony I can relate to his preoccupation with shelter from rain.” He chuckled when Loras only wrinkled his nose and lazily huffed. “We'll find a solution regarding his desire for grandchildren,” Renly continued. “I'm sure Margaery will take care of it, one way or another, and he'll stop pestering you about it soon enough. For now, just let him enjoy the wedding preparations. His favorite son will only get married once and that alone is more than he ever expected.”

“First of all,” Loras sternly began, sat up, wrapped his arms around Renly and pulled him closer. “ _You_ are his favorite son, I lost that position when you married my sister. And secondly, you can't blame me for wanting to escape my father's frantic bustle. If I recall correctly, you chose a hideout in Dorne.”

Renly laughed and leaned down for a quick kiss. “I didn't 'hide' in Dorne!” he protested, still chuckling. “You know there were other matters we had to take care of and...”

Loras silenced him with another kiss and shook his head. “Aye, matters concerning my sister, my grandmother, myself, but not you,” he then said with a daring grin on his lips. “You only spent a week with friends in the shadow of Sunspear, plundered the markets and drank Dornish wine.” He furrowed his brow, mocking deep thought, then shared his sudden insights with Renly. “The exotic marvels of Dorne instead of Oldtown, a warm summer day for your wedding instead of autumn wind and pouring rain... Come to think I really could have done better for myself, had I paid more attention to the arrangements.”

“You can still make up for it,” Renly said, got up and took Loras' arms to pull him out of the chair. “There are matters I'll need to attend to this time. There'll be feasts and good wine and...”

“...dull conversations,” Loras finished for him. His expression betrayed disappointment, but lacked true surprise.

“And dull conversations,” Renly confirmed with a secret smile. “Not quite as many as I told your father though. Margaery and I will get that out of the way while you and Satal pose for the artist. After that, we'll be free of your father's overbearing excitement and can enjoy our stay in Oldtown for a while.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The wind howled between the tents and whipped a gust of snowflakes through the curtain when it was opened from outside. After leaving the Dreadfort in the morning, the storm had gotten worse by the hour, as if the sense of dread followed the party along the undulating, western road. By now the sun had set, night had fallen and the camp was shrouded in the eerie glow of bonfires braving the storm among rolling fields of new snow. Leiff had invited the guards into the tent for a mug of mulled wine, therefore it didn't surprise him that an unannounced guest stepped through the curtain unhindered. The fur-lined hood obscured the visitor's face, but the sandy beard that merged with the shaggy pelt collar underneath gave away that it was Lord Nosser. “Care for some company?” he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer and just came inside.

“Not at all,” Leiff answered anyway and nodded to spot by the fire. “After spending the night in the Dreadfort I crave all the company I can get.” He waited for Lord Nosser to sit down on the stacked furs and take the mug Harrion handed him. “I suppose I shouldn't complain about the unexpected hospitality Lord Bolton offered, but I never felt more forlorn and lost than in that room. And I once slept in the Nightfort during a storm...”

“Those chambers probably last housed guests in Old Pelsen's youth.” Lord Nosser shuddered, removed his hood and took a sip from the hot wine. “I'm almost disappointed I didn't encounter a ghost or heard screams in the night.” He paused and raised his mug to a lazy toast aimed at Leiff. “But we shouldn't run our mouths about Lord Bolton,” he said with an air of resigned importance. “His voice carries weight and he lends it to our cause. Never expected it, but perhaps the loss of his son truly changed him. I wouldn't want to speak ill of a mourning father who's trying to redeem himself to his people.”

Leiff exchanged a long glance with Harrion across the crackling fire. Roose Bolton had shown no such regard for mourning sons in the past, nor had he cared about mourning wives, mothers or daughters. He had condemned men for minor offenses without second thought, had passed ruthless sentences and never asked what became of the families left behind. 'A peaceful land, a quiet people', that was Roose Bolton's personal motto. He didn't mind that the peace and quiet was owed to his own bannermen cowering in fear and not daring to approach him for aid or guidance. Too many of them had disappeared without trace, and those who were sent to live out the rest of their days at the Wall were often considered the lucky ones in the end. Other, less fortunate men had never left the Dreadfort after being summoned and their screams still echoed in its hidden dungeons and secret torture chambers, if the numerous rumors were to be believed.

Lord Bolton's son, Domeric, hadn't been much older than Leiff when he died from a sickness less than two years ago. Leiff had never met him, but he knew that most people had only praise for the heir of House Bolton. Lord Redfort, who had fostered him in the Vale, thought Domeric showed great promise on the lists and also attested him talent at playing the harp. Leiff had no reason to wish him ill, for all he knew he would have liked Domeric Bolton. But deep down, in the coldest corner of his heart, he harbored the notion that Lord Bolton deserved losing his son. That it hadn't been a tragedy brought upon by a haphazard illness. That the Old Gods had intervened to give him a taste of the grief he administered to his people.

“Or he merely feels slighted about being left out,” Leiff sullenly answered. “I've seen his 'concern for the people' since I came home to the North. Not a word from Lord Bolton regarding the death of my father.” He let out a humorless sneer and stared into the fire. “I don't even know if he approved of my marriage. Never received a reply to the announcement nor the invitation.”

Lord Nosser shrugged, set his mug down and took the bread and bacon one of Leiff's guard passed around. “Perhaps the loss cut him deeper than we'll ever know,” he gave back. “It must weigh heavily on a father's mind to know he'll never see his only son's wedding. Your celebration might have been a reminder of that. I know I'd stay away from merry company if I was in Lord Bolton's situation.” When Leiff didn't answer, Lord Nosser gave him a brief, jolly nudge. “For what it's worth, I approve of your marriage. Your wife is as pleasant as wives come, I'm certain Lord Bolton would agree if he met her.”

Though Leiff just couldn't share Lord Nosser's optimism, the conversation eased up the tension that had lingered all day. If nothing else, a friendly face helped him feel less lost among a diverse group of strangers, bound together by chance in their quest for answers.

It hadn't been anything their host _did_ at the Dreadfort, nothing he _said_ , and certainly not the plan he presented. On the contrary, it all had been a more than welcome surprise. Many of the commoners had been reluctant to enter the forsaken keep of House Bolton, and it hadn't been Lady Dustin's steadfast conviction that had lured them through the gate. A courtyard sheltered by thick walls, no matter how gloomy, had been the lesser evil compared to making camp in the cold, stormy hills for one more night. Nobody had gone missing by the time a pale sun crept up the horizon, instead the party's numbers had been bolstered by a dozen guards.

“We'll ride for Winterfell,” Lord Bolton had told his guests in the morning. “All of us, I'll be leading the party myself. And we're not going to leave until Eddard Stark has explained his orders to our satisfaction.”

The words had been calm, almost gentle, and they had been echoed by many voices throughout the day. Perhaps, Leiff thought, repeating the notion made it feel more real, chased away the shadow of doubt people had about their unlikely leader. This darkness still shrouded his thoughts when Lord Nosser left the tent, but Leiff had to admit that his guest's hopeful demeanor had cheered him up. What really mattered was shining light on recent events, getting an explanation and putting an end to the discontent in the North. Who spearheaded the effort was ultimately not important.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“I didn't mind the occasional war band.” Roose Bolton pulled the reins of his ghost-pale stallion, directing the mount toward a ruin by the side of the road. “They were far and few between, never a bother, but they kept my men on their toes. Soldiers grow restless in peace times, savage raiders give them something to do.” He dismounted the horse outside the gate of what had once been a castle and walked a few steps toward it through the snow. “Lets them hone their skills and keeps their minds sharp,” he added, though the clip-clop of hooves drowned out the words. Age and weather had reduced the small lakeside castle to an overgrown pile of rubble, beyond the outer wall and the gate only a leaning tower remained. The buildings that had once lined the yard had caved in completely or nature had claimed them. Thorny vines and thick, knotty roots of trees grew through windows and doors, had lifted roofs and left nothing except for moldy, exposed rafters. “Hurry up, water the horses,” Bolton turned to the guards that had followed him in a short distance on the trampled path. “If we match yesterday's pace we'll reach Shepherd's Hold in the evening.” The guards nodded, two returned to the road and relayed the order while others hurried to get ice picks from their saddlebags before making their way to the frozen lake.

“It is beyond me how you can tolerate that... creature.” Lady Dustin's voice carried open disdain and a slight accusation. She had joined Roose by the gate, but she didn't look at him. Her gaze followed the hooded man who tended her horse.

“I saw no other choice after Domeric's passing,” Bolton gave back. “A temporary precaution until I find a suitable wife to give me a trueborn heir.”

Lady Dustin scoffed, pulled her thick fur cloak tighter together and crossed her arms under it. “Send the bastard to the Wall. That is the precaution you should take if you don't want another heir to perish from a 'mysterious illness'.” Her horse, along with the attendant she scorned, had moved out of sight and Lady Dustin's gaze wandered to the group that had gathered around Lord Pelsen on the road. “I've always known you as a man who values honor and justice,” she absently added. “Yet you let Domeric's murderer go unpunished, reward his vile deed by allowing him to live under your roof.”

“Don't impute me with indifference regarding the death of my son.” Roose' grey gaze pierced her hood, but Lady Dustin ignored it, didn't show the unease his glare so often sparked in others. “I'm well-aware that the bastard can never replace what I've lost.”

“Then why he is here?” Lady Dustin abruptly turned back to him. “Why is he not in the dungeon where he belongs? Why are you allowing him to play the role of your son?”

“You know as well as I do that Maester Uthor found no evidence of a crime,” Roose replied. “As suspicious as the circumstances seem, he concluded an illness was the cause of death.” Their eyes met and for a long moment unspoken volumes lingered between them. “I took him in because that's what Domeric would have wanted,” Roose then broke the silence. “He sought out the bastard, against my advice, because he dearly wished for a brother. That is the role I allow Ramsay to play, the brother Domeric never had.”

“Grief produces strange effects, I should know.” Lady Dustin held his gaze with open contempt, not flinching, not blinking at his icy eyes. “You honor your son's memory by elevating the one who brought on his demise. That is your prerogative, but don't expect me to play along.” She didn't wait for an answer, she simply turned away and wandered back to the road.

The unvarnished truth stung like salt on the exposed flesh of a flayed man, but Roose' face remained stony. Had it been anyone but her, he'd have been outraged at being questioned so bluntly. But it hadn't been anyone else. It had been his late wife's sister, Domeric's aunt, perhaps the only one in the world who understood the scope of his loss. He slowly followed her down the trail, but in his thoughts he was far away. Far from the frozen lake where the bastard watered the horses, far from winter and far from the uncertain future of his house and the North. 


	24. Through The Grapevine

“We cannot let these unfounded accusations go unpunished!” Grand Maester Pycelle slammed his fist on the table, but his frail body lacked the strength to give it true force. “This is an outrage! The culprit must be brought to justice at once!”

“Who do you suggest we punish?” Lord Tarly regarded him with curiosity from the corner of his eye. “The loyal men who educated us about the frivolous slander?” He glanced to the empty chair to the Hand's left, then his eyes followed the man who normally occupied it, but paced up and down behind it today. However, the support the Master of Laws sought from Stannis came from the end of the table instead.

“Perhaps we should begin with the less loyal men who failed to mention they received such a message.” Lord Baelish's eyes rested on Varys as he spoke, but his words didn't carry the tone of a veiled challenge for once. “At the very least we should question them, find out what they have in common. Acquaintances, perhaps, a source they might protect.”

“The obvious course of action has occurred to me indeed,” Varys replied, more flippantly than the suggestion called for out of sheer habit. “However,” he turned to Jon Arryn, his tone now solemn and composed. “Conspirators who spread such precarious lies act with caution. My tireless, little birds have listened to songs from near and far ever since these rumors surfaced, but to no avail. While some recipients were obvious choices for attempts to spread discontent, others have never shown signs of predisposition for such claims.” His gaze wandered back to Lord Baelish before Varys revealed his conclusion. “The 'less loyal men' were in fact those who dismissed the mysterious letter because they never considered that it might hold even a grain of truth. Those who reported to us were the men I keep under close observation, for past transgressions, current suspicions and various other reasons I do not wish to disclose.”

“Not good enough, Lord Varys!” Not only the volume of Jon Arryn's voice startled the council members and drew all eyes to him, it was also the anger and impatience in the words. “An ominous source spread claims that the king's trueborn heirs are another man's bastards, and that is all the Master of Whispers has to say?” He got up from the chair and grabbed his stacked scrolls without taking his reprimanding glare off the Spider. “I will tell Lord Tywin that a full investigation is underway. And I expect it to be true before I set foot in the audience chamber!” He swiftly strode away to the door, leaving the order linger above the long, oval table.

 

The uncomfortable silence engulfed the remaining men of the Small Council, only disturbed by the thud of the door falling shut and the rustling of parchment. Stannis had ceased pacing about and returned to his chair, but the scrolls in front of him remained untouched. In the light of these audacious developments, the content of his notes had lost all importance. It had been good news for once, perhaps the first since the onset of winter. Other men might even have called them 'uplifting', though Stannis didn't go quite that far. The painful truth was that right now none of it mattered.

Robert had listened to the report from the North and although nostalgia clouded his judgement for the most part, he had approved of the measures Stannis had taken. His Grace had even insisted on sending a raven to Winterfell to inquire about the progress his old friend Ned had made. An answer had arrived in the morning, saying that the efforts began showing results. Lord Commander Mormont had dispatched a group of seventy men, both veterans and recent recruits, to Oakenshield, making it the first of the abandoned castles to be re-manned. Another group was preparing to head out for Deep Lake and a smaller party had departed from Eastwatch to Greenguard, which the Lord Commander expected to be garrisoned within two months. The Shadow Tower in the west was still struggling, though plans for Westwatch had already been made. A matter of rough terrain making for difficult travels, Lord Stark wrote, paired with the reluctance of the hill clans to spare any men. No reason for concern, the letter went on to say. Should the situation not improve over the next few months, Castle Black would redirect their recruits.

Only one drop of bitterness tainted the promising message. Securing Lannisport's harbor with a royal warship had driven the Ironborn raiders up the coast. Their sails had been sighted around the Rills and Cape Kraken, on coasts that offered both less resistance and fewer spoils. Robert had agreed with Ned Stark's assessment that they needed a firm reminder who they were challenging, and he had expressed regret that he couldn't join his old friend on the hunt.

That had been two hours ago and Stannis had been hopeful, had thought he'd slowly got things back under control. Now there was nothing left of the notion nor the king's high spirits. Not only did the preposterous defamation stir his anger, it forced him to endure the presence of his wife and her kin. Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived a week ahead of Prince Tommen's name day and Robert had expected idle chatter during the celebration at most. Instead, they were now attending a meeting convened in the Hand's Tower, expecting answers Jon Arryn didn't have. The Hand was certainly not to be envied today.

 

“This conundrum demands a swift solution,” Petyr Baelish finally broke the heavy silence. “Lord Varys and I will coordinate our efforts. Exchange information, follow up on leads from different angles. I don't mean to encroach, but I'm well-versed in whispers and have sources who might be of use.”

Somewhat stumped, Varys nodded in agreement, but before he had a chance to reply, Grand Maester Pycelle took the word. “Several scrolls containing the contemptible claim were given to me,” he said, then coughed into his sleeve. “I will instruct the maesters to study the handwriting. Perhaps a sender can be determined that way, though the lack of samples for comparison makes it a difficult task.”

Silence fell once more, but Lord Tarly seemed to have something to say. He undecidedly glanced back and forth between the Hand's empty chair and Stannis, then back to his scrolls. Only when Stannis gave him a brief nod Tarly cleared his throat and gave voice to his thoughts. “I don't know a thing about whispers and sciences,” he firmly said. “However, I know about difficulties regarding public perception.” He ignored the puzzled looks resting on him and kept addressing Stannis as if they were alone in the room. “As you may know, my firstborn son was a weakling. A soft, fat boy with no mind for warfare, a constant source of shame for my house. I tried so hard to mold him into a warrior, a man worthy of wielding our ancestral blade. However, I failed. In the end I saw no other choice but sending him to Wall, elevating my second son to the position of heir. Some called me 'cruel', said I was a bad father. And I silenced those voices by letting my actions speak louder.” He paused for effect and drank from his ale. “What restored my reputation was being seen with my son, accompanying him to tourneys, personally overseeing his training. It is not quite the same as the situation at hand, but...” He trailed off, though not for a lack of words, it was reluctance to say out loud what he thought.

“You are right,” Stannis helped. “It is an unfortunate truth, but we can't be afraid to confront it. The king has neglected public appearances with the queen and their children. Attending a few tourneys and festivals together doesn't fool anyone. Even a blind man can see the divide between them and this perception allows slanderous rumors to take root.” He sighed to himself and gathered his scrolls. “Prince Tommen's name day will be a first chance to make amends.” He got up and glanced to the empty seat of Jon Arryn. “The session is closed,” he then plainly declared. “Bring any insights as to who is trying to defame the crown to Lord Arryn. Immediately, no matter how small or insignificant your findings may seem.”

 _And please, gods, don't make me discuss public perception with the king_ , he added in thought on his way to the door. _Let Lord Tywin bring it up. He might be the only man in the realms who never shies away from the insurmountable challenge of convincing Robert to do what has to be done._

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“What is our next destination?” Danyal regarded Beric across the table with narrowed eyes.

“An alehouse that was recommended to Jalabhar after our arrival,” Beric gave back, pointedly calm. “But since he took the map with him, I don't know where exactly it is.”

Danyal leaned forward and slowly pushed a vase with dried flowers out of his line of sight. “Where will the ship take us from Myr?” he rephrased the question. “Which direction?”

“We'll go back to King's Landing.” Beric sighed and leaned back in his chair, as if it would help to avoid further questions from his interrogator. “Northwest from here, across the Narrow Sea.” When Danyal considered the answer with a skeptical expression, Beric got up and walked away from the table. “I've told you the names of my parents and Anguy's favorite wine, described the first horse I rode as a squire and listed every tourney we attended in the past year.” He sat down on the bed next to the wardrobe and absently reached for the star-spangled cape. “The events after the shipwreck might be hazy in my mind, but I remember my life before that just fine.”

Unimpressed, Danyal moved the vase again and thoughtfully watched Beric as he inspected his new cape. “How many bottles does Thoros keep in his chambers? Counting the rare vintages on the tall shelf in the corner only?”

“I don't know and I don't care.” Beric let himself fall backwards onto the bed and covered his face with the cape and a pillow. “It's an ever-changing collection, Thoros probably has no idea himself.” He slowly lifted his head when he heard no answer, then cautiously peeked out under his futile disguise. “I don't mean to sound ungrateful,” he added in a more amicable tone. “I understand you are concerned, considering all that happened. You saved my life for the second time and of course I am glad that you did, but I assure you there's no need to worry about me anymore.” He paused and put the cape aside. “The weeks since the resurrection feel like the memory of a dream rather than real events, but I haven't forgotten what happened. The ship that rescued us, the captain and his parrot, arriving in Myr.”

“I was just making sure.” Danyal got up from the chair and wandered to the window next to Beric's bed. “I'm never around when those miracles happen, I have to rely on the results I see and judge for myself.”

“You can't blame me for that.” Beric got up and joined Danyal by the window. “I was dead, I could hardly call you over before I was resurrected!” He paused when Danyal shot him an amused side glance, then chuckled to himself when he realized what he had said. “And it was your own fault in the Red Temple. Had you stayed with us, you would have seen how Lady Sandrine touched my head.”

Danyal pointedly raised his eyebrows and looked down to Beric. “I converted. There's nothing wrong with making use of the services offered in the temple.”

There was a brief flash of irritation in Beric's eyes, then realization set in. “That's not what I meant,” he quickly said. “Of course it is fine, you just chose a bad moment. All I'm saying is that you might have witnessed a miracle if you had waited with us.”

“Oh, I witnessed one.” Danyal laughed and put an arm around Beric's shoulder. “Not quite a resurrection, but I'm sure not complaining. You're alive and well, that's what really matters in the end.”

Beric shot a quick glance to the door, then turned back to the window. “If only Thoros would believe me when I tell him I'm fine. He shouldn't worry about me like that for no reason.”

“You mean he's overbearing in his concern,” Danyal dryly concluded. “He's had a beady eye on you since we left the temple. Now he only went to order the food because you insisted that I get it wrong every time.” He smirked when Beric only stoically stared out of the window, his furrowed brow was answer enough. “You were dead and dazed,” Danyal reminded him. “The warlock will rest his concerns once he sees that tapping into forbidden magic did no lasting damage to you. Give it a few days or weeks and...” He broke off when the door swung open and Thoros, as if he had sensed the topic of the conversation, entered the room.

 

“I'm afraid we won't have the time for a feast.” Thoros didn't close the door, he went straight to his bed and picked up his tattered cloak. “The _Havalyr_ is waiting for us in the harbor. Jalabhar went to inform Lady Sandrine, he just stopped by to tell me that we better hurry because Captain Yörb appears quite eager to leave.”

Beric and Danyal exchanged a brief, dumbfounded glance, but both began gathering their belongings without further ado. “That's earlier than expected,” Danyal noted. “They must have had exceptional luck with the winds.”

“Perhaps it's the Lord's will that we return to King's Landing at once,” Thoros said as he put on his cloak. Every other fortunate coincidence had been attributed to R'hllor by someone at some point on this journey. Why not this one as well? Getting used to this mindset might help consolidate his own, newfound faith.

“Captain Yörb doesn't pray to the Red God.” Beric followed Thoros to the door and watched Danyal check dressers and trunks. “He prays to a 'Sky Father', an Ibbenese god of the sky and the wind.” Thoros' skeptical side glance was met with a triumphant smile as Beric continued. “I might have been in a daze, but my condition wasn't as dire as you thought. I remember my conversations with the captain, it's at most details that escape me. Ask him about the small, blue flag showing a whale. He'll tell you about the Sky Father and the Sea Mother.” He went around Thoros, out into the hallway. “Of course, they are not real, R'hllor is the One True God, but it is not our place to tell the captain what he should believe.”

“Then you must also remember that Lady Sandrine said you need to spare yourself for a while,” Thoros dryly interjected, earning an irritated glare for the remark.

“I'm not preparing for a joust, am I?” Beric defiantly gave back. Danyal had concluded the inspection and now came to the door, closed it and went ahead to the stairs. “And if the Lord of Light hastened Yörb's ship because he wants us back in King's Landing, he'll make sure we'll arrive safely and not cause any delay,” Beric added when he and Thoros followed Danyal down the stairs.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“There's no blue flag with a whale,” Thoros noted when they approached the busy harbor. The docks, as always, were teeming with merchants, workers and travelers, but a large ship like the _Havalyr_ was hard to overlook. “It's black, white and grey, the same flag all Ibbenese ships fly.”

“Of course it is.” Beric went a few steps ahead down the slope of the road. “The blue whale flag at full mast means they want the Sky Father to send stronger winds. Why would they ask for stronger wind at the port?”

Danyal and Thoros followed him toward the bustle, using the tall masts of the _Havalyr_ for orientation. Among crowds dressed in colorful robes, even Jalabhar's flamboyant feather cape wasn't easy to spot and he'd certainly wait with Sandrine by the ship. “I believe I've seen Righis raise a blue flag when we disembarked,” Danyal said when they reached the end of the slope and merged with the chattering masses by the docks. “Their gods may be nothing but sailors' superstitions, but it seems to work out for them either way.”

They carved their way through the crowds and finally, when a cart loaded with sacks of grain had passed by, the vivid feathers of Jalabhar's collar emerged ahead of them, between passersby wearing equally bright colors. Captain Yörb and Lady Sandrine were with him, however, there was a fourth person standing with the group. The woman was tall, easily towering two heads over the Ibbenese captain, her skin was the color of cinnamon, her untamed mane jet black, and even from the distance her eyes looked as dark as the heart of a traitor. However, her demeanor was not as menacing as her imposing appearance. She seemed to be in high spirits as she chatted with Jalabhar and Sandrine. Captain Yörb had apparently accepted that he wouldn't get a word in, he didn't appear to be paying attention to the conversation and impatiently glanced to the _Havalyr's_ gangway.

 

“He probably stole them,” Beric, Thoros and Danyal heard her say when they came closer. “Though the secrecy about it strikes me as unnecessary, I doubt the Dothraki care too much. Such things are merely trinkets to them. The loss was likely forgotten by the time someone else paid tribute to them.”

“A great risk nonetheless,” Jalabhar replied. “There has to be a good reason for that.”

The woman laughed and shook her head while reaching for a pouch on her belt. “I fear I must disappoint you in that regard,” she said. “He's been doing nothing of note ever since he left Pentos. The eggs must have been an easy target, means to get by, a random choice.” She shoved something into her mouth, then continued, now chewing: “He's offered them to various buyers. Traders, collectors, priests of different faiths. I've dealt with many of them in the past and the only thing they all have in common is money.”

“And a disinterest in purchasing stolen dragon eggs,” Yörb added, then he turned his attention to the three new arrivals. “Hurry up, lads!” he greeted them before any of them had said a word. “There's a strong gale out at sea that won't wait around for us all day!”

Since the conversation had abruptly come to an end, Jalabhar finally noticed his companions as well. “May I introduce?” he began, nodding to the woman next to Yörb, but he was immediately interrupted by the captain.

“Save up the pleasantries for later, son, you'll have enough time for that once we're at sea.” Yörb turned on his heel and strode to the gangway, and the rest of the group followed him, somewhat stumped.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“You ride a fine horse, Lord Warryng.”

It was the first time Lord Bolton directly addressed him since they had left the Dreadfort and Leiff couldn't help but shudder at the innocuous words. They were only half a day's ride east of Winterfell now and Lord Bolton had asked the handful of nobles to ride with his party, perhaps as a display of unison upon their arrival.

The chestnut mare had been part of the dowry and she was a fine horse indeed. Admittedly, she stood out among the Northern-bred mounts of the party, though Leiff hadn't thought a man like Roose Bolton would pay attention to it. “Thank you, my lord,” he replied, hoping a short, polite answer would thwart a conversation.

“A rare sight this far in the North,” Bolton shattered Leiff's hope. He took another long look at the horse, then turned his eyes back to the road. “Must have cost a small fortune. I've only seen such stock in White Harbor and nothing is ever cheap in the city.”

Was this a conversation or an interrogation, Leiff wondered. One one hand, it was certainly not unusual that a wealthy lord had an eye for fine horses. However, on the other hand this was Roose Bolton and he wasn't known to keep himself entertained with idle chatter. Except for a brief exchange with Lord Pelsen in the morning, Lord Bolton hadn't spoken to anyone but Lady Dustin and his guards. _A costly horse doesn't line up with the things I said back in the Dreadfort._ Leiff clutched the reins tighter as the thought flashed through his mind. “I did not buy the horse,” he said after clearing his throat, trying to not let on his discomfort. “I married a granddaughter of Lord Walder Frey and received not only coins, but also horses as my dowry.”

“House Frey?” There was a hint of surprise in Roose Bolton's voice, or maybe it was only Leiff's imagination. Most people he had told about his betrothal had reacted this way and it was entire possible he only heard what he expected by now. “How come you took a southern wife?” Bolton looked over again, this time studying the rider instead of the horse.

“I attended a wedding held at the Twins,” Leiff replied, keeping his eyes on the sloping road ahead. “It was a fairly large celebration and Lord Frey apparently sensed a chance to find matches for the bride's sisters and cousins. He introduced me to a good dozen of them when I mentioned that I was the heir of House Warryng.” The memory of his first meeting with Kareena eased the tension and Leiff continued without further inquiries from his lord. “And I don't think it was a coincidence that most of the wedding guests were eligible men.”

Lady Dustin, riding to Bolton's right and listening to the conversation, briefly looked over and wrinkled her nose. “No, it wasn't a coincidence,” she said, uninflected. “Walder Frey has always been desperate to get rid of his daughters. Perhaps Lord Stark should allow women to take the black and announce it to him. The Wall would be re-garrisoned in no time at all without risking our harvests.” For a long moment it was silent except for the drubbing of hooves on the overgrown road. “Apologies, my lord,” Lady Dustin then plainly said. “I did not mean to belittle your wife or your choices. Lord Frey's methods of securing matches may be questionable, but accepting his offer was a noble deed nonetheless.”

“There was no coercion, my lady,” Leiff gave back, somewhat stumped. “Lady Kareena had caught my eye before I knew who she was, and I was stoked Lord Frey considered me a suitable match.” He glanced over to Lady Dustin, but only caught a glimpse of her hood. “And there is no need to apologize,” he added when he turned his eyes back to the road. “At the time, I didn't understand my knight's reaction. He, too, was skeptical due to Lord Frey's reputation and found the betrothal much too rushed. Now I see how lucky I was that things turned out as well as they did. Back then, I was smitten and stubborn and had no way of knowing where this path would lead me.”

“Your knight? You squired in the south?” There was surprise in Bolton's voice, now Leiff was certain, and to his own surprise, he also heard appreciation in it. “My son did as well. Perhaps you met him, he spent three years at the Redfort.”

“I only traveled to the Vale once, my lord,” Leiff heard himself answer. It felt unreal to have a casual conversation with Roose Bolton, but at the same time the topic conjured up fond memories that brushed away the unease. “Most competitions I participated in were held further south, but I have heard about Domeric during my travels. His skill was well-known and perhaps...” He paused and hesitated, but when Bolton looked over, Leiff cleared his throat and continued. “Perhaps his good reputation worked in my favor. When I approached Lord Rainborn about fosterage for my sister, he quickly agreed because 'Northerners do very well in the Vale'. Of course, my knight had helped me with these negotiations, but Lord Rainborn also raved about Lord Redfort's Northern squire quite a bit.”

Leiff hadn't thought it possible and perhaps it was a trick of the pale afternoon light, but there was a smile on Lord Bolton's thin lips when he looked over. “Knowing that my son is still held in such high regard gives me comfort,” he said. “I hope your sister will find the same happiness in the Vale as he did.”


	25. A Light In The Darkness

Somehow, Thoros hadn't been surprised when Captain Yörb finally introduced the tall, armor-clad woman after the _Havalyr_ had left the harbor of Myr. The crew was a wild conglomeration from all across the Known World, it only seemed fitting that the first mate was no exception. However, Ghadir Nayadashavat didn't quite live up to the first impression; she was more of a businesswoman than a goddess of war. Once the ship was out at sea and the strange urgency to leave Myr had worn off, she had shown more interest in Sandrine's dealings in the temple than the tales of royal tourneys in the Red Keep. During the first course of the evening feast in the captain's cabin the conversation of the two women had grown more and more hushed, though it didn't escape anyone that it was about money. By the time Iosefka served the second assortment of trays and platters, they had excused themselves and retreated to Ghadir's cabin. Perhaps a deal had been struck, perhaps they rather discussed the details of their negotiations in private. Either way, it had left the guests somewhat stumped.

“Don't take it personally, I'm sure she'll listen to your tales later.” Yörb didn't seem to mind his first mate's sudden departure and playfully winked at Iosefka as she poured an amber wine into his mug. “She doesn't mean to be rude, but business always comes first. Takes patience and money to conquer a kingdom, I suppose.”

“She saves up for an army?” Thoros asked. “Which kingdom is she planning to conquer? Should King Robert be worried about a potential invasion?”

“She wouldn't need an army if she wanted to sit on the Iron Throne,” Jalabhar interjected. “Robert would cast Cersei aside in a heartbeat if he could make a woman like that his queen in her stead.”

Thoros laughed, though Jalabhar certainly had a point. “He'd cast Cersei aside for a well-stacked tavern wench if the Lannisters let him,” he gave back. “Doesn't take much to impress him these days, but we'd have a war against lions on our hands either way.”

“Bayasabhad first and foremost,” Yörb put an end to the brief discussion. “That's what she wants to conquer. Maybe everything that used to be known as the Patrimony of Hyrkoon long ago.” He shrugged and took a swig from his mug while Iosefka placed plates of baked trout in front of the guests. “I only know what Ghadir tells me, I never venture that far inland myself. Robs a man of his soul if he can't hear the rushing of waves for too long.”

“That's quite an ambition.” Jalabhar nonchalantly tried to nudge the fat parrot back to Beric when the bird purposefully waddled toward his plate. “What is her grievance with the city?”

Danyal nodded his thanks to Iosefka, then turned to the captain. “Was the city's throne hers in the past? And did she happen to be usurped by an impertinent sibling who exiled her to a distant land?” He smirked at Jalabhar from the side and Thoros quietly chuckled into his mug.

Jalabhar's indignant glare was meant to silence the chuckles, but the effect fell flat. Nobody but the parrot reacted. It erected its crest, made itself appear even massier by puffing up the colorful feathers, and that the bird dauntlessly shambled back to Jalabhar's plate only added to Danyal's blatant amusement.

“It's more of a personal matter than a dispute over land,” Yörb said, either not noticing or simply ignoring Jalabhar's miffed expression. “A disagreement about the abolishment of old traditions, I would call it.” He cut into the trout on his plate, releasing a small cloud of steam, then leaned back to let Iosefka pour a creamy sauce onto the fish. “Ghadir, she used to be a queensguard for Nhivy II. Vireshanary, the queen of her tribe,” Yörb continued, unfazed by the tongue twister of a foreign name. “When the queen died her daughter Nishat took the throne. She wed a Great Father of Bayasabhad, formed an alliance with the old foe after centuries of constant strife.” A piece of trout disappeared under the captain's bushy mustache. “Ghadir didn't take too kindly to that,” he added, now chewing. “She still holds a grudge after more than a decade and plots to overthrow them all.” He paused and furrowed his brow, then looked over to Danyal. “I don't have a clue if the warpath she imagines will lead her to the throne. I hope not, because good crewmen are hard to come by these days.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sun had long set when the group left the captain's cabin and only the few men of the night shift went about their routine on deck. Captain Yörb was still in high spirits as he led the way to the common room where most of crew had gathered at this hour. It was the _Havalyr's_ last voyage to colder regions before spring, he had explained during the feast. After returning the passengers to King's Landing and delivering the last cargo on Ib, the ship would set out for more temperate waters. Though no concrete plans had been made, the captain looked forward to it. The way Yörb spoke about upcoming travels made the world seem much larger, as if winter would claim only one small corner of it and never reach the busy ports of the south-eastern coasts.

“You've been strangely quiet since we went aboard.” Thoros held Beric up on the hallway outside the common room, falling a few steps behind Jalabhar, Danyal and their host. “Are you alright? I thought you'd be thrilled to be back on this ship, but somehow it seems you'd rather be somewhere else.”

Beric stopped next to a column when chatter and laughter poured out onto the hallway from the brightly lit room. The captain had opened the door and cheerfully waved Danyal and Jalabhar inside, Thoros heard him challenge them to a dice game of some sort over the voices of the gathered sailors. “I don't want to be elsewhere,” Beric undecidedly answered. “But 'strange' is a fitting description nonetheless. It feels like I'm reliving a dream I don't fully remember. Everything seems familiar and foreign at once...” His voice trailed off and he regarded the oil lamp dangling from the column.

“I can see how that is a bit overwhelming.” Thoros' gaze absently skimmed the chatty crowd in the room ahead. Apparently only Danyal had accepted the captain's challenge, as Jalabhar had joined Sandrine, Ghadir and Urien Yinich on a different table. “Maybe we should retire early today,” Thoros suggested. “Catch up on sleep and get accustomed to the ship tomorrow when the crew went back to the daily routine.”

“You're probably right,” Beric gave back, glancing to the common room as if something suspicious was transpiring in there. “The last thing I need now is a room filled with faces I can't fully place.” A resigned chuckle followed when he turned in the other direction. “At least I'd find the way to our cabin in my sleep. Not that I like to admit it, but sleepwalking these hallways is the one thing that doesn't feel strange.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Thoros awoke to the sound of thunder, cracking down on the waves like a whip, and at first his drowsy mind mistook the light in the cabin for lightning. Then his eyes found the true source, one of the Ibbenese oil lamps, illuminating something more concerning than bad weather at sea. Beric lay on his bed, curled up, breathing heavily, his eyes wide open and fixed on the lamp. The sight was enough for Thoros to jolt up and rush over, and he was both surprised and relieved to hear Beric react. “Just a bad dream,” he mumbled when Thoros sat down next to him. “Nothing to worry about, I'll be fine in a moment.”

“You don't look fine, but I'll take your word for it.” Thoros ran his hand through Beric's hair, damp with cold sweat, and thoughtfully regarded him in the warm light of the lamp. The color had returned to his cheeks after Sandrine had worked her magic in the Red Temple, and the Myrish sun had played a part in it as well. Now the pallor was back, Beric looked like a whole army of ghosts had haunted his dreams and chased him to the end of the world. “You want me to get you anything?” Thoros offered. “A drink, perhaps? Or I could light some candles...”

He felt Beric shake his head and adjust his position, inching some closer to the edge of the bed. “I'm not thirsty,” he quietly gave back. “And I already searched the drawers for candles. There aren't any, only some flasks of oil for the lamp.” He wrapped himself around Thoros and looked up. “I appreciate the company though. This nightmare...” His voice trailed off and his head sank back into the pillow.

“Tell me about that dream.” Thoros leaned down and fumbled about for the handle of the drawer under the bed. “Sometimes it helps to realize that the things you saw were not real.” He found the handle and opened the drawer, then felt around in it for towels or cloths. “I used to have this terrible dream about Pyke, years after the Greyjoy Rebellion had ended. Every night I saw men falling from that dreadful bridge to their death, heard the screams of harpies as they dove after their prey.” He found what felt like a stack of towels and took one to dry the sweat on Beric's forehead and neck. “I told Robert about it and he listened intently, though he was not terrified of my descriptions at all. In the end he said it was a good story, but recommended I replace the harpies with some kind of sea beast. 'Leave the harpies in Essos,' he told me. 'A giant snake or a kraken, that's what the tale needs if it's set at Pyke.'”

Beric quizzically peeked up to him when Thoros put the towel aside. “His Grace has a point,” he said after thinking for a moment. “I've never heard any claims about harpies inhabiting the Iron Islands. A snake or kraken would be a much better fit.”

“Seems so obvious now, doesn't it?” Thoros chuckled and returned to stroking Beric's head. “Yet it never occured to me until Robert pointed out just how absurd the premise was. Once I realized it, the dream lost its terror and gave up haunting my nights.”

“There were no harpies in my dream.” Beric's gaze drifted back to the oil lamp on the table. “Nor any other mythical beasts. Or anything, really. Only a hazy, surreal darkness, I don't know how to describe it. Wafting shadows, an all-encompassing absence of light.” He paused and studied the lamp for a long moment, as if the words he was looking for could be found in the fire. “Except for a flame in the distance, so bright that even the darkest night can't eclipse it.” He abruptly looked back up to Thoros. “I dreamt of the same things I saw when I was dead.”

 

Thoros swallowed, but he kept running his fingers through Beric's hair, tried to not let on that he had no real clue what to say. “See, that's absurd now as well, isn't it?” he got out, not succeeding in sounding as firm as intended. “If you were dead you wouldn't be talking to me. You wouldn't be on a ship, you wouldn't see that the light source is a lamp on the table.” It was hard to frame a subliminal memory of death as nothing but a strange dream, the roots in reality ran too deep for that claim. _Why couldn't you dream of a sea dragon attack?_ Thoros thought to himself. It could be explained away so easily as a jumbled recollection of Captain Yörb's yarn.

“I know I'm alive.” Beric's head sank back into the pillow and his gaze got lost in the dimly lit void of the cabin. “I know I'm on a ship in the Sea of Myrth. I know it's a dark, stormy night and I know what I see is an oil lamp. I'm aware of my heartbeat and my breathing, I know I'm not dead.” He began to wriggle himself out of the blanket with sudden urgency, then sat up next to Thoros on the edge of the bed. His voice wasn't haunted or resigned anymore, he sounded defiant when he continued. “But I don't feel it. I almost expected Danyal and Jalabhar to bring in wood for my pyre before you woke up.” Without waiting for an answer, Beric stood up and went over to the trunk across from the table.

“What are you doing?” Thoros watched him, slightly puzzled, as Beric grabbed his clothes from the trunk, threw the shirt over his shoulder and began to put the pants on.

“I'll go for a stroll,” came a prompt answer. “The bed feels rough and rocky like the ground of a desolate island. The cabin feels like a cave where I'm about to be burned.” Beric almost lost his balance when he put on a boot, but he caught himself and proceeded, undeterred. “Wandering the hallways of this ship? That feels familiar, that feels alive.” He put the shirt on and turned around to Thoros. “My memories of the island are foggy. I don't remember that I almost fell into the fire, that I accused you of being a warlock, that I forgot about Danyal already being a knight.” After halfheartedly tying his shirt, Beric went to the table and took the oil lamp from it. “But there's one vivid, sharp memory that stands out from the fog. When we followed the captain down the hallway a sudden clarity overcame me, an overwhelming feeling of being alive.” He paused and there was a hint of a chuckle. “Though I suppose I didn't fully realize that I had been dead in the first place at the time.”

Thoros regarded him for a moment, then he nodded to his stack of clothes on the trunk. “You still want company?” he asked, glad for the change in Beric's tone. Perhaps a walk was a good idea and would help chase the gloomy mood from his mind as well.

“I wouldn't mind,” Beric gave back after brief hesitation. “However, it's fine if you're tired and rather go back to sleep. I won't get lost on the ship, if that's what you're worried about.”

“It's not.” Thoros caught the clothes when Beric threw them over. “By now I'm fairly sure you know the ship better than her captain.” He got up to get dressed and looked around for his boots on the floor. “And it's not you who cost me a good night's rest anyway, it's the incessant thunder that woke me.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Careful, the ladder is a bit wonky.” Beric descended through the hatch in the floor, then moved out of the light cone on the deck below. “Hand me the lamp and tread lightly.”

Thoros skeptically regarded the ladder, but he went on his knees and passed the oil lamp down through the hatch. “You were climbing around on rickety ladders in your dazed condition?” he asked, directing his reproachful glare from the wooden staves to Beric. “R'hllor must be really dotty about you, watching over you during such daring endeavors...”

“It's not rickety,” Beric corrected. “It just creaks loudly if you move too fast, and that would defeat the purpose of going down here to not wake up sleepy sailors.” He waited for Thoros to climb down, not avoiding the creaking completely. “There's faint light coming from somewhere around that corner and I think I heard noises.” Beric nodded to the dark hallway to his left. “Probably the night shift looking after the cargo. Now that you're here to translate, maybe I can have a chat with them, after all. They were nice enough when I met them during my exploration, but since they didn't understand a word, they delivered me to the captain right away.”

“In that case, I suppose I should thank them for keeping an eye on you,” Thoros gave back and he was certain he heard Beric huff as they walked down the hallway.

There was indeed a faint light coming from a door around the corner, but this was not what made Beric stop dead in his tracks. Loaded with empty baskets and carrying a stack of trays, Iosefka stood outside the door and blankly stared at the unexpected explorers. “You not Yinich!” she got out in apparent shock. “Go back to cabin, quick! You must not be here!”

Thoros and Beric exchanged a puzzled look, but before either of them could answer and try to explain their presence, the light cone coming from the ajar door went dark. The light source hadn't been extinguished, someone had stepped outside and blocked it, casting a large shadow over the three people on the hallway. “They walk in R'hllor's light,” a calm, deep voice said in Valyrian. There was a strong Volantene accent in it, and the voice belonged to a tall man who almost merged with the twilight. His skin was the darkest shade of ebony, darker than Jalabhar's even, his long robes had the color of burnt umber, and only his snow-white hair stood out brightly against the black skin. A Summer Islander, Thoros' mind absently concluded, but his eyes were fixed on the tattoos on the man's face. Deep red flames framed his features, covered his forehead and cheeks; the markings of a slave the Volantene had selected to serve as a red priest.

The man leaned down to Iosefka and whispered something into her ear, which she acknowledged with a brief nod. “I'll see where Yinich is and tell him to hurry,” she answered in Valyrian, loud enough for Thoros to understand, then she gathered her trays and baskets and purposefully walked away.

 

“Valar morghulis," the red priest turned to Thoros and Beric. His tone was calm and casual, in stark contrast to his imposing appearance, as if he wasn't surprised to see visitors here at this late hour.

"Valar dohaeris," Thoros answered, still perplexed. This situation posed so many questions that his mind couldn't decide which one to ask first. Why was a red priest hiding down here in the cargo bay? Did the captain know about it or was this some sort of conspiracy between Iosefka and Yinich? While Thoros tried to come up with something to say, Beric found another, more pressing question.

"These people... Are they slaves?" he got out, staring through the crack of the door. Thoros' gaze jumped there in an instant, and what he saw only confirmed Beric's baffled conclusion. Men and women, all bearing the marks of Volantene slaves on their faces, silently stared back, frozen in motion and holding plates and bowls of food. "The captain told me he detests slavery!" Beric woke from his brief shock, confusion merged with anger in his voice. "Why are there slaves on his ship? Does he know about this?"

The red priest slowly shook his head, a bastion of composure in the face of Beric's outrage. "We were slaves when we boarded the ship," he said, now speaking the common tongue with barely a hint of an accent. "But no longer."

The people in the compartment didn't look especially free hiding down here, but they didn't wear shackles and seemed content with their food. "The captain bought your freedom then?" Thoros offered his best guess.

"After a fashion," the red priest replied, indifferent to Thoros' bemusement. "There was no exchange of coins."

Beric regarded him for a moment, then he went closer to the door and peered into the compartment. "You were stolen?" he turned to the red priest again. The anger had left his voice and made way for incredulous astonishment.

"One can't steal what is not owned," the old man gave back, but it was no denial of the accusation. "The men of Ib don't recognize slaves as such. From their point of view, the Free Cities are overflowing with skilled labor, people willing to work hard for a fair wage. Hard work and money is what Ib has in abundance, and a constant desire for mercantile expansion." He pushed the door open wider and entered the cargo compartment, then waved Thoros and Beric in. "What Ib does not possess is the workforce to support the growing demand for their exports. There's no crime committed when they send agents to the Free Cities and supplement their whaling crews with labor from foreign shores."

 

Quite a few things fell into place in Thoros' mind. The _Havalyr_ had returned early to Myr because she had never sailed all the way to Volantis. An 'agent', Thoros had no doubt it was Ghadir, had probably led the 'newly hired workers' out of the city, to a more secluded venue somewhere on the Orange Shore. What the red priest said explained why Captain Yörb had been in such a hurry to leave the harbor, why he had reverted to his usual, jolly self once the ship had safely gotten away with the living, breathing contraband in his cargo bay.

Thoros followed Beric and the red priest into the large room where the gathered people had resumed eating the food Iosefka had served. The tattoos on their faces and hands silently told the stories of their past as enslaved sailors, fishermen, carpenters, and cooks, but their eyes glimmered with the certainty that a new, better chapter began here. The exception was a woman, a cook by the markings on her cheeks, who quietly sipped her stew in a corner, staying away from the long benches where the others sat.

 

"So this is the first mate's business in the Free Cities?" Thoros asked, instead of inquiring why Ibbenese whalers had use for an elder red priest. Though Thoros was curious, this was a question for later. The man was built like a bear, perhaps worship hadn't been his true calling. Perhaps he sensed a chance to start a new life of wrestling sea dragons with his bare hands in the Shivering Sea. However, for now it seemed more important to better understand the situation at hand. After all, it was still a long journey to King's Landing and there was no 'staying out of things' in the confines of a ship.

"In the Free Cities, in the ports of Slaver's Bay... The merchants of Ib send their agents wherever slaves gather." The priest sat down on a bench and took a bowl he was offered. "And every slave knows to look for the Sky Father's flag when the dream of freedom takes on a more tangible form." He took a swig from his stew and sighed. "I've heard whispers about it for so many years, yet like so many I thought the risk was too great. But the visions became stronger and stronger, and the Lord now demands that I follow the signs."

"You seem rather trusting with such precarious information," Beric noted when he sat down next to Thoros on the long bench by the door. "I imagine your former 'masters' don't take too kindly to your newfound work arrangement."

The old man shrugged, apparently the thought of recapture didn't faze him at all. "I have seen my path in the fire," he said. "There's a passing familiarity in your faces, nothing more. All it accounts for is this chance meeting." His gaze wandered back and forth between Thoros and Beric, and his voice carried pride and conviction when he went on. "The flames told me to travel north, that I'll be needed there to shine R'hllor's light on the path of a king. Ib is the northernmost place people inhabit. Whatever the Lord wants me to find will be there." He poured down the rest of his stew and put the empty bowl on the bench next to him. "Even if you harbored malicious intentions, you couldn't stand in my way," he added, now more furtive. "The Lord of Light wouldn't allow it and nothing rivals his might."

Thoros was about to inquire about the mentioned visions, but the door swung open before he said a word.

 

"What is this, a cargo bay or a red temple?"

Captain Yörb looked like he had just fallen out of his hammock and he was upset, neither Thoros nor Beric had ever seen him like this. He wildly looked around in the room before he entered, followed by Yinich, who quickly closed the door behind them. "The Priestess Provost of Myr sleeps two decks above you! Do you really think we should draw her attention?" Yörb's glare rested on the old priest now. "I know these are not ideal travel conditions, and it's not what you signed up for with Brother Ghadir. But taking that woman to King's Landing means easy money, so you'll have to make do with the limited comforts until we get there."

"There will be no trouble," the red priest calmly gave back, speaking Valyrian again so the Volantene understood what was said. "I have seen no disturbances on our journey in the fire."

Yörb rolled his eyes and tried to tug the collar of his half-closed coat into place. "Fire, fire," he muttered into his beard. "We're out on open water and that means I have the last word in this matter! You'll stay down here and keep quiet until I tell you otherwise, understood?"

The old priest shrugged and answered with a brief nod, then he translated the captain's order for the Volantene. The situation appeared to have calmed down, until the woman in the corner suddenly got up and released a torrent of words aimed at the captain. Though she spoke too fast and had too strong an accent for Thoros to catch it, it was clear the outburst came from a place of despair. There were tears streaming down her face when she fell silent and stared at the captain and Yinich with wide eyes, demanding an answer.

Captain Yörb furrowed his brow, then turned around to Yinich and they exchanged some hushed whispers. Again, it was impossible to understand what was said, though they apparently conversed in the common tongue. They furtively regarded Thoros and Beric as they spoke, then the captain turned back to the distressed woman. "Once we left King's Landing," he said in Valyrian, then rushed out of the compartment.

Thoros and Beric looked to Yinich, still standing by the door like a statue and apparently not inclined to offer an explanation either. He paid no attention to their puzzled expressions and calmly regarded the woman in the corner. "Where is the body?"


	26. Unanswered Prayers

Thoros had felt like a grave robber, sneaking around on the dark, lower decks in search of a fresh body. However, he had made the macabre excursion with the best intentions, not to steal from the dead, but to return what was lost. It was a leap of faith, an exercise in blind trust. And that was exactly what he needed, Thoros thought. If he relied solely on the Lord of Light's guidance, maybe he'd understand his mysterious ways just a little bit better.

The cook's daughter had succumbed to a snakebite, shortly before Thoros and Beric had discovered the hideout. Yinich had done all he could before the _Havalyr_ had reached Myr, but ultimately the treacherous venom had won. It wasn't so different from a falling rafter, was it? The young woman had sustained an injury on a difficult journey by pure chance and it had claimed her life. No, that wasn't too different from the way Beric had died. And it suggested itself that the Lord hadn't led them down to the cargo bay in the previous night for no reason. If there was ever a time Thoros didn't need any convincing regarding divine signs, this was it. R'hllor wanted him to make use of his newfound power and bring this young woman back to life. The Lord's will had been so obvious, there hadn't been the shadow of a doubt when Thoros had entered the dark cargo deck.

Not a word had been said on the way back to the cabin. The faint creak of the door when Beric closed it behind them was the only sound in this somber silence, then his steps on the floor when he returned the oil lamp to the table. Thoros didn't move, he remained by the trunk next to the door and watched Beric take off his surcoat and boots before sitting down on his bed. Watched him put up his legs and adjust the pillow, watched these mundane, little things dead men didn't do.

 

“It should have worked,” Thoros finally broke the disquiet silence. “I performed the rites exactly the way I did on the island. Even tripped up on the same line of the prayer and corrected the same mispronunciation of the same word.”

“Maybe you are exhausted,” Beric undecidedly gave back. “Defying death must cost a great deal of strength, even if you only act as a vessel for the Lord's power.” He patted the edge of the bed and waited, but Thoros stayed where he was.

“The Lord would have known that,” he said after a moment, slightly shaking his head. “And if he knew, why did he lead _us_ downstairs to discover the woman?” He stared at Beric's hand, now resting on the bed, as if the invitation to sit down required careful consideration. “There's no shortage of red priests on this ship. If I lack the strength to channel such powers again, why didn't R'hllor grant them to the priest from Volantis?” He woke from his apparent fascination with the hand and came over to sit down on Beric's bed. “He probably performed the last rites after Yinich inspected the body. They didn't know the captain would only allow a funeral after the ship left King's Landing, so there was no reason to delay the last rites.”

Beric inched closer and put an arm around Thoros' shoulder. “Maybe that's why it didn't work. Because the last rites had already been performed by somebody else before your attempt.” He rummaged under the pillow with his free hand and produced the wine bottle Thoros thought he had left in the common room. “Last rites are supposed to be final, are they not?” Beric opened the bottle and held it under Thoros' nose.

“They are,” Thoros replied. He skeptically glanced from Beric to the bottle, but took it without calling this newfound habit of storing wine in his bed into question. “I still find it hard to believe that we learned about the woman's death by sheer coincidence. The red priest said he saw our presence in the fire. There must be a reason why the Lord led us to him, don't you think?”

“Maybe this _is_ the reason.” Beric waited until Thoros had taken a swig and returned the bottle to him. “A reminder that resurrections are a rare and dangerous thing, that you can't just go around and bring people back whenever it suits you.” He drank some sips from the wine, then placed the bottle on the table, next to the lamp. “The Lord of Light may have seen the woman's passing as a chance to teach you this lesson. The circumstances of her death may have been similar to mine, but she was a complete stranger. We didn't even learn her name, we only know she was meant to make sails for a wharf in Ib Sar.” He pulled the oil lamp some closer to the edge, careful to not knock over the wine. “Finding out this way that you can't rely on resurrections spared you from the pain of trying and failing to bring back a friend one day.”

“Maybe it's also a sign that we should trade places.” Thoros leaned over and took back the wine. “It hasn't been four weeks since you converted and you're already a better priest than I became in the past forty years.” He chuckled into the bottle, then drank the last sips from it.

“My father might be fine with my conversion, but I'm sure he'd step in if his heir began preaching a foreign god's word.” Beric snatched the empty bottle from Thoros' hand and placed it on the floor next to the bed. “Didn't Lady Sandrine have any insights as to why the Red God gave you the power to bring me back? If I was you, I'd trust a red priestess of her renown over a layman's speculation.”

“'Stannis Baratheon may have sent you on this journey, but your fate was forged in the Lord's fire long before,' that's what she told me when I brought up the subject,” Thoros said, now more thoughtful. “That my path was always predestined and R'hllor intervened because he sensed a deviation, an incident that threatened my timely arrival in Myr.” He paused and took a deep breath. “She also contributed the survival of Jalabhar, Danyal and myself to divine intervention, and said the Lord would have sent the _Havalyr_ to us without anyone throwing cured meat into the fire.” He paused and regarded the empty bottle with a pensive expression. “But she's the one who performed her first miracle when she was six years of age. To her, a resurrection is only slightly more peculiar than her daily dealings of healings and divinations. She's not me, she hasn't lived in doubt for most of her life, her faith never wavered.” His gaze wandered to the oil lamp, casting its warm, sedate glow across the bed and the table. “I suppose I've grown too suspicious of my god in the years of his absence. There's no denying that I would have stayed on that island if you hadn't opened your eyes, and the Lord must have known that. And he brought you back so I'd continue my 'predestined' journey to Myr.”

Apparently, the hidden wine stash was exhausted, no new bottle turned up when Beric fluffed up the pillows. “Then it must be very important that we escort Lady Sandrine to King's Landing,” he noted.

“Looks that way.” Thoros undecidedly shrugged. The events of the past weeks spoke to the urgency of this mission, but it also seemed far-fetched that his supposed destiny was intertwined with Stannis Baratheon's investigations of miracles on foreign shores. “Still, the Lord could have told me it was a onetime exception through the fire.”

Beric was done rearranging the bedding and lay down by the wall, conspicuously leaving one of the pillows untouched. “The Lord may not have had a chance to tell you that way,” he said, glancing back and forth between the pillow and Thoros. “You haven't looked into the flames in a while. At least I haven't seen you doing it during our stay in Myr.”

Thoros huffed and kicked off his boots, then peeled himself out of his surcoat. “Had to keep an eye on you,” he gave back. “Sandrine told you to take it easy for a few weeks, and you're not exactly a shining example of following that advice.”

After grumbling something unintelligible into the pillow Beric lifted his head again. “Browsing markets and sampling food in taverns is hardly exhausting,” he noted, followed by a yawn. “Sneaking around night after night on a ship, however, is. We should get some rest now.” He patted the mattress and tugged on the second pillow. “Of course, you need to practice reading the flames and interpreting the visions to keep up with me, but I think it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Very generous of you, my lord.” Thoros raised his eyebrows and chuckled, then pointedly regarded the pillow. “Am I reading this sign right? You want me to sleep here?”

“Yes, it is brighter here,” came a tired, but nonetheless convinced answer. “The light I see in the darkness of my dreams, I think it is you. The night and all its terrors will be less dreadful if you stay close.”

“I was considering to speak to Sandrine and brush up on my admittedly rusty knowledge when it comes to reading the flames,” Thoros began when he lay down on the bed. “But I'm beginning to think High Priest Beric will provide better counsel.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Did the witch betray me, Stannis?” The king slowly paced up and down in front of the window, briefly obscuring the afternoon sun with each pass. “Are those golden shrouds the marks of bastards?”

For a while, Stannis just watched his brother in silence, wondering how he had offended the gods to deserve this conversation. This was a downside of sending Robert's drinking companions away, a shortage of ears more receptive to the king's angry musings in the Red Keep. The Hand was engaged otherwise, though his task was unlikely to be any more pleasant. Preparations for Prince Tommen's name day celebration under the watchful eyes of Lord Tywin. Discussing matters of public perception with him, what could be done to silence the outrageous rumors a still unidentified source had spread.

Yes, the investigations of Varys and Baelish had led to arrests, but none of their suspects had both means and motive to contrive such an elaborate transgression. At best, they made capricious scapegoats. At worst, the evidence didn't even suffice for that. Pycelle had added only few leads of his own, though this was still more than Stannis had expected. It was an impossible task to match the penmanship to one hand with any certainty, but for once the old goat was at least trying and diligently kept analyzing the scrolls.

“How am I supposed to know?” Stannis finally said, having no better answer to the king's question.

Robert stopped in front of the window and regarded his brother with unexpectedly calm, pensive eyes. The shadow his large frame cast swallowed almost all of the room, crept over the chairs, part of the desk, then merged with the dark wood of a bookshelf. “Robb Stark takes after his mother,” he gave back, mocking the commanding tone of Lord Tywin. “As does his sister. A spitting image of Catelyn Tully, people say.” He glared to the door as if he suspected eavesdroppers outside, then looked back to Stannis. “Willas Tyrell resembles his grandfather more than either of his parents. And Lord Donniger, met him and his kin at Rosby. His son resembles Lady Donniger, his daughter looks exactly like him. Quite unfortunate for them both, come to think.” He left his position by the window and wandered to Stannis' desk. “But then there's you,” the king continued, his countenance still stern, though he no longer mocked Tywin. “Black shroud, blue eyes, all your girl got from her mother were the large ears. Renly's spawn reportedly has raven hair as well.”

“Renly's son is also said to have his mother's hazel eyes,” Stannis interjected. “Lord Tywin might be right when he says the children inherited Cersei's golden shroud, but your blue eyes. Or he could be wrong. There's no telling who passed down a trait both bloodlines possess.”

 

To his surprise, the statement seemed to chase the anger from Robert's features. “You're not supposed to know the answer,” he returned to his previous question. “How could anyone tell if the children are truly mine? Yet every damned adviser claims to know with authority who fucked my wife and who didn't! You're the only one to admit you don't have a clue, the only honest man in this fucking keep.” The king sighed deeply and turned away from the desk, wandered a few steps into the room's center and absently glared to the door. “They all keep saying it's preposterous to think Cersei was ever unfaithful. But I know her, oh, I know her better than anyone.” He swirled around, his eyes sparkling with anger once more. “She's a whore, and whores are faithful to money, not men. You know she's not pure or loyal, none of the things Tywin claims her to be.” Robert took a deep breath and gathered himself, then continued calmer, with more composure and an air of importance. “So I'm asking you what I should do about it. This past week has taught me that nobody else is willing to speak the truth I need to hear.”

Stannis regarded him for a short eternity, a pause for effect and careful consideration. This conversation had taken a turn he had never expected, Robert's seemingly sincere request for advice caught him off guard. After closing the ledger he hadn't graced with a glance since Robert's unannounced visit to the study, Stannis arose from his chair and came out from behind the stacked desk.

“Play along,” he firmly said, looking his brother straight in the eye. “Do what the culprit expects you to do. Deny the accusation, show the realms that House Baratheon and House Lannister stand united.” Robert's brow furrowed, but he did not interrupt and prompted Stannis to continue with a subtle nod. “Clearly, whoever is behind this plot aims for a divide,” Stannis obliged. “And that is the very thing we cannot afford. People fear the coming winter, the first one under your rule. We can't show even a hint of weakness, now less than ever.” He inhaled, then let the air out with a resigned sigh. “And we need the Lannister gold more than ever as well,” he admitted. “On that note, your plans for the winter tourney...” Another pause, another sigh, another chance to interrupt that Robert did not take. “The Small Council doesn't begrudge you the prospect of entertainment, it's the enormous expense that gives us a headache. We won't make it through ten years of winter without imports, and once fields and pastures are frozen, the prices will rise even higher.”

Now Robert raised his eyebrows and pointedly cleared his throat. “The tourney is a topic for another day,” he said. “Dealing with the slanderous prick who defamed me, that is what matters right now.”

“Let the rumors die down. Let the prick think his plan failed, but that he got away with the attempt unscathed,” Stannis returned to the previous subject without hesitation. Robert was listening to him, truly listening, for the first time in years. There'd be another chance to discuss less pressing matters if he didn't gamble away this credit of trust. “We'll conduct our investigation in silence, 'allow whispers to echo louder with the passing of time', as the Spider phrased it. This situation won't be solved by brandishing swords or locking up every stickler in our dungeons. It's the treachery of a coward who wields whispered words as weapons, and this is a game best played by spies.”

Robert nodded, more to himself, and appraisingly regarded Stannis. “You were suspicious of Varys' motives before,” he then said. “Now you're telling me I should trust him?”

“In this regard? Yes.” Stannis wandered to the cupboard across from his desk, opened the doors and took a bottle of wine. “His reputation, perhaps even his position as Master of Whispers, is on the line. Such personal stakes take precedence over possible hidden agendas.” He filled two crystal glasses with golden wine and offered one of them to the king. “Never thought I'd see the day when the bickering between Baelish and the Spider ceases. It's certainly not what our mysterious enemy tried to achieve. Instead of creating a divide, he unknowingly closed one.”

“Two.” Robert took the glass and raised it to a vague toast. “For years I thought I never really knew you. A stranger, one of many, who happened to reside in my keep, that's what you were. But today I'm speaking to you as a brother. I no longer see a stranger, I see a man I can trust.” He poured down the wine in one go and put the glass on the desk. “This, Stannis, this is a real concern, not some fantastic yarn for long nights by the fire. And you've proven that you do have it in you, that you can give prudent counsel when no other man will.” He laughed to himself, satisfied with his conclusions, then strode to the door and opened it. “Just don't pester me with the tourney,” he added, one foot already outside on the hallway. “I'll think about what you said and we'll talk when the current storm has blown over. For now, I will heed your advice. After all those years of 'playing along' with the whims of the council, I'm confident that I mastered this skill.”

Stannis still watched the thick, wooden door long after it had fallen shut. Even though Robert had been in a fairly amicable mood lately, the turn this conversation had taken still came unexpected. The shameless claims of the traitor added further unrest to an already precarious situation. People still feared the coming winter, crime still ravaged the streets. But perhaps this challenge also brought a chance in its wake.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The banner bearers had been ordered to ride prominently in front of the procession when the towers of Winterfell came into view. “A display of unison,” Roose had told them. “Lord Stark needs to understand that this a concern of the Northern people, not a handful of houses making petty complaints.” And what a display it was.

The party had grown in numbers during the journey, adding more banners to the ragtag collection. Lord Hardbrooke had joined his wife with a group of guards, and a shriveled, old woman who claimed to be Lady Haystone rode with the nobles as well. Three decades ago, the young Lord Haystone had perished in a terrible fire without leaving heirs. According to this woman, he had been her grandson, and after the fire she had lived in seclusion, alone with her grief. Nobody was sure whether it was true or if she was beggar who had found an old banner in the forest, but it didn't matter. Whoever she was, her presence added one more noble name to the party, one more voice to the chorus, and that was good enough.

Most of the new travel companions didn't carry banners, spurious or real, and they didn't wear the colors of any houses. They wore the dull, practical attire of hunters, craftsmen and fishers, making them indistinguishable from the inhabitants of the Winter Town.

There had been something grand about it when the party rode down the street leading to Winterfell's main gate, at least if one didn't look too closely. Despite the late season, the Winter Town still felt like the ghost town it was during spring and summer. Many houses stood empty on the outskirts, only the heart of the village around the market square looked less abandoned. Men hauled carts with firewood through the alleys, women chattered by the well or browsed the wares of the merchants, but it almost felt as if they only tried to create the illusion of a busy town.

Roose raised his eyes above the deserted alleys as he rode by, tried to count the columns of smoke emerging from the houses ahead. He had last been here three years ago when Winterfell celebrated Robb Stark's coming of age, but even then, at the height of summer, there had been more life in these streets. The sparse population he counted now posed no mystery though. It was quite evident that two reasons were at play to produce this result, and both had to be addressed with Lord Eddard Stark. Ordering second and third sons to the Wall alone didn't account for all those empty houses, but paired with the prospect of well-paid work in White Harbor, the pieces fell into place.

It had been here, in the Winter Town's alehouse, where the bastard had first picked up the rumors of Lord Manderly's ambitious project. Instead of people settling in for the winter, Ramsay had found the spirit of departure sweeping through the Smoking Log's common room. Roose had practiced patience. After all, an undertaking like this took time and careful planning. Once the groundwork was laid, Lord Manderly would surely sent invitations to discuss further proceedings with the lords who owned coastal lands. More taverns had emptied as workers went south, yet neither Lord Stark nor Lord Manderly had written. And now Winterfell's open gates lay ahead, holding a promise of long overdue answers.

 

"Lord Bolton!" Catelyn Stark's greeting was a relieved whimper when Roose Bolton, followed by the nobles and their banner bearers, rode through the gate. "Thank the gods you are here!"

Bolton's expression did not betray his irritation with the strange reception. "You seem surprised to see me, Lady Stark", he replied from the back of his horse. "Has my message not reached you?" His gaze briefly crossed the yard, searching the rest of the welcoming party, but he only found servants and craftsmen going about their routine.

"It has." Lady Stark nodded, now her voice carried gloom. "A request, or should I say 'demand', to speak to my husband." She glanced to the group gathered by the gate, then her tone and countenance softened when she turned back to Lord Bolton. "And I wish it was granted to you."

"He refuses to receive me?" Roose Bolton dismounted the horse and stepped closer, carefully studying the faces of the small welcoming party. Lord Eddard Stark's face was not among them, that much was evident, but Lady Stark's demeanor suggested there was more than daily business behind his absence.

"He would," Maester Luwin answered in her stead. "But he has not yet returned from Flint's Finger." He exchanged a brief glance with Lady Stark, and when she subtly nodded, the maester continued. "Lord Flint sent an urgent message, reporting sightings of more Ironborn raiders than his men could handle near Cape Kraken. In the past, their attacks were confined to the rocky coast of the Flint Cliffs, but in recent weeks they acted more brazen and advanced into Blazewater Bay. Several settlements were attacked, some inland, as far as two or three days away from the coast. Lord Stark led a party there to aid the defense, but we have not heard from him or Lord Flint ever since." He sighed to himself. "Instead, a message from Castle Black arrived, another request for help in an urgent matter..."

"Lord Stark is not here?" Roose Bolton interjected, hiding his growing irritation behind a stony facade. "Did he know of my coming? Did my letter reach him before he left Winterfell?" His grey gaze pierced the maester's skull, but the answer was given by Lady Stark.

"The raven came two days after my husband's departure," she said. "We were hoping he'd return long before your arrival, but he didn't. My message to Flint's Finger went unanswered as well and I find it hard to believe that it never reached the castle. Something went wrong, terribly wrong, I can feel it..." Her voice trailed off and she looked up to one of the towers, then she pulled her cloak tighter together and gathered herself. "I know you came here for answers, but all I can offer is our hospitality," she added, her voice now firmer. "There are chambers prepared for you, and our steward can direct your companions to quarters in the Winter Town, should you wish to join me in waiting for Ned's return."

Lady Dustin had waited with the party by the gate, but she had closely listened to the conversation and now came over. "What did the message from Castle Black say?" she inquired, looking to Lady Stark and blatantly ignoring the maester. "Does the Lord Commander not have enough recruits to deal with his troubles by now?"

The words came out too brusque, too matter-of-factly, and Catelyn Stark didn't appreciate the stern tone. Her face darkened, but her voice suggested she didn't like her own answer any better than Lady Dustin's question. "Apparently not," she said. "Lord Wull discovered large bands of wildlings south of the Wall, they took shelter in one of Watch's abandoned castles. He demands to know why the new recruits are sent to Oakenshield when more men are needed on the western stretch of the Wall. Lord Commander Mormont's assurances that the Watch will take care of it fell on deaf ears. His message said Lord Wull refuses to speak to anyone but a Stark." Another sigh left her lips and her gaze wandered from Lady Dustin back to Lord Bolton. "Ned hasn't been heard from in weeks, Bran is sick with a fever, and Robb wants to ride to Castle Black and negotiate with a stubborn chieftain without knowing any more about the situation than you or I."


	27. Ghosts Of The Past

“Are we supposed to believe these excuses?” Lady Dustin kept pacing back and forth near the table, but Roose still didn't pay her any attention. He was staring to the courtyard through the guest chamber's window and did not turn around, just like he hadn't reacted when she had entered the room.

The fires in the hearths of the village glimmered in the dusky distance past the gate, but it was not where his absent gaze lingered. Robb Stark, Lord Eddard's eldest son, had just concluded his training with the master-at-arms, and now they were standing near a stack of barrels, engaged in a lively discussion with three other men. They were too far from the guest house to make out their expressions, and their gestures gave no hints to the subject of their conversation either. A disagreement about Robb Stark's intention to ride to the Wall, Roose thought to himself. Lady Stark didn't want him to go. She had made that very clear earlier, saying Ned would take care of the matter upon his return. Perhaps Robb tried to garner support for his position from his father's advisers, thinking they'd later help him to convince his mother.

“Lord Stark conveniently left two days before your message's arrival?” Lady Dustin tried again. “There was no reply to his wife's request for instructions? The grey rat can't shed any light on the situation, Lady Stark is 'too preoccupied' with her sick child to join us for the evening meal?” She briskly walked around the table and crossed the room to join Roose by the window. “Obviously, there is something they don't want us to know,” she sharply added, looking outside to figure out what captured his attention.

“Have you ever met Gilliana Glover?” Roose kept watching the yard where the group of hooded figures walked toward the Great Hall. “Lovely girl, a niece of Galbart Glover,” he added, his tone now a strange blend of casual and pensive.

Somewhat puzzled, Lady Dustin looked back to him and it took her a moment to answer. “Once or twice,” she finally said. “Though only in passing. I don't recall talking to her.” When Roose absently nodded and didn't offer an explanation for the sudden change of subject, Lady Dustin left the window and resumed her impatient pacing by the table. “What does she have to do with our current situation? She's certainly not what prevented us from getting the answers we came for.”

“Only met her once myself.” Roose still seemed lost in thought and it almost came as a surprise that he reacted at all. “During my last stay at Winterfell, the celebration when Robb Stark came of age. Didn't speak to her either.” He paused and watched the group outside open the gate of the Great Hall in the distance. “The Glovers sat at the table behind me,” he then continued. “Close enough to overhear their conversation through other chatter and music.” Another pause, the gate fell shut, and Roose turned around to face Lady Dustin. “You know what Gilliana Glover told her handmaiden?” he asked, his voice still pensive, but no longer absent.

“I don't.” She stopped behind the table and crossed her arms. “And frankly, I care very little about a young girl's chatter you overheard years ago.” Her voice conveyed as much blatant disinterest as her countenance did. “But I'll humor you, so we can move on to subjects that matter. What did Gilliana Glover tell her handmaiden?”

Roose glowered at her and crossed his arms as well, yet once more the effect of his piercing gaze fell flat. “It was during the dance,” he began, then broke off and carefully considered his words. These thoughts had slowly overcast his mind like heavy clouds on the road, and confronting the memories here, where they had been made, brought on a downpour he hadn't expected. This was a silent triumph he had mostly kept to himself, not due to secrecy, but because few cared to listen. Even fewer understood with how much pride it had filled him, and Barbrey Dustin's preemptive disregard was entirely unbefitting for what he had to say. “Nevermind,” he firmly cut himself off. “You are right, there are more pressing matters than reminiscing about days past.”

 

“I'm glad we are in agreement.” Lady Dustin unfolded her arms and sat down on a chair, ignoring the carafe and cups on the table. “So what are we going to do now? I suggest we confront the Tully woman about her wealth of excuses, tell her in no uncertain terms that we won't accept her refusal to answer our questions.”

“We won't get any answers from her,” Roose gave back. “She's an open book, one containing more empty pages than words.” He leaned against the rough brick wall next to the window and kept his arms crossed. “If she was conspiring with her husband to withhold information from us, there wouldn't have been relief in her eyes upon our arrival. We wouldn't have been offered salt and bread, we'd have been fed another excuse. One that would have turned us away right at the gate.” He took note of Lady Dustin's sour expression, but continued without acknowledging it. “Ned Stark may be many things, but he is not a man who runs from confrontations. He wouldn't be at Flint's Finger if he was trying to hide anything. He'd be right here and look me in the eye when telling me to not stick my nose in his business.”

“Ned Stark acts honorably if it's convenient.” Barbrey Dustin crossed her arms again, leaned back in the chair and gave a brief nod to the window. “He didn't look them in the eye when he gave his disconcerting order, nor did he firmly state he won't explain. No, he expected us to swallow his flimsy excuses and fall in line like we always did.”

“I'm 'falling in line' because I think an interrogation of Lady Stark would be futile?” Roose left his spot by the wall and slowly wandered toward the table. “We'll see her true colors in the morning, I promise you that.”

Lady Dustin raised her eyebrows and held his gaze. “Will we?” she plainly asked. “If she has no answers, as you say, what do you expect we will see?”

Roose had reached the table, but made no move to sit down. “The answers are at Flint's Finger, fending off petty raiders,” he said. “So I will go there. I'll do what a good, loyal bannerman does. Offer my aid in these trying times and do what I can to hasten Lord Stark's return.” Lady Dustin was about to interject, but Roose simply continued. “If he doesn't require reinforcements, he'll still appreciate my concern. Lord Stark values loyalty and reliability, and he shares information with men who have shown to possess these qualities.”

“I see where you're coming from,” Lady Dustin gave back, unimpressed. “Put him in your debt, make him think he owes you the courtesy of honest answers. However, even if you call your banners tonight, it will take weeks until your men reach Flint's Finger.” She paused and thought for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Of course, I'd be willing to assist you, but frankly I'm hesitant when it comes to favors to House Stark. After all, it is their fault that there are barely enough workers to bring in the last harvests and...”

“It won't be necessary,” Roose calmly cut her off and now Barbrey Dustin looked somewhat puzzled.

“You don't intend to lead this ragtag band of fishers and farmers to the Flint Cliffs, do you?” she asked, nodding to the window and the Winter Town somewhere beyond. “At best, there are two or three dozen men who ever held a sword in their life or trained with a bow. If Winterfell's men-at-arms couldn't handle whatever Lord Stark encountered, how will you gallantly ride to his rescue with those 'reinforcements'?”

“This is exactly the question I'll pose to Catelyn Stark in the morning.” Roose wandered around the table and stopped in front of the hearth. “If she's truly worried about Ned's whereabouts, she won't want to wait for my men to arrive. She'll offer men from Winterfell's garrisons so I can leave for Flint's Finger right away.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The moon stood high above Winterfell, illuminating disquiet ghosts of the past in its pale light. People considered the Dreadfort to be plagued by restless souls, claimed to hear moans and screams from hidden dungeons. Yet the true haunting resided here, at the seat of House Stark. It was not an apparition, no translucent shape of a long deceased ancestor soaring through nightly hallways, no unexplained whispers or rattling of chains. What hid here was a more unsettling, less tangible kind of terror: the fading echoes of a triumph forever unclaimed.

Roose could still hear the music playing in the Great Hall of his mind, some newfangled tune that didn't catch on. He could still smell the last course before the dance, a roast with too much caraway in the crust. It overpowered the bland sauce or perhaps it had been meant to compensate for the distinct lack of spices. He could still taste the honeyed mead on his tongue, a bright beacon of flavor among the otherwise unremarkable selection of beers and wines. He could still feel himself nod along to the dull monologue of Leobald Tallhart, some inebriated and irrelevant musings about recent events at Torrhen's Square.

“Shh, careful, he's sitting at the next table!” The young woman giggled and spoke too loud to count as a whisper; her voice came from somewhere behind Roose' back. He still remembered the words that had caught his attention. Little more than idle gossip, but the pretense of secrecy still made it marginally more intriguing than Tallhart's slurred remarks about the state of his well.

“The music is too loud,” a second voice replied. It, too, belonged to a young woman, but it was firmer, more commanding. “I could barely understand what my uncle said, and he was sitting much closer to us. Besides...” There was now a jesting defiance in her tone. “Why would he take offense? There's no insult in my honest opinion, on the contrary, and no man is unsusceptible to flattery.” She paused for effect and cleared her throat, but it was the first voice, now less meek, that spoke again.

“You wouldn't dare, my lady! Your father would never approve!” The girl seemed aghast at what her companion insinuated, though Roose still couldn't take a guess at what that was. He had thrown a glance over his shoulder when a servant had poured new mead, and from the corner of his eye he had deducted that the firmer voice belonged to Gilliana Glover. The second girl was her handmaiden, however, it was not unequivocal who they were whispering about. There were quite a few men sitting at the 'next tables', and none of them paid attention to the girls.

“Oh, and how I would dare!” Gilliana replied. “My father may think the Dreadfort is haunted, but I'm not afraid. If I want him to consider my wishes, perhaps I have to take matters into my own hands.” Another pause, this time there were no giggles, and the handmaiden's hushed voice suggested unease. “No, I don't care!” Gilliana answered an unheard question, now sounding annoyed, if not outright upset. “If my father wants Robb Stark so badly, he can go ahead and wed him himself! I don't want that oaf for my husband! All he talks about is fighting and hunting, he must be the dullest man in the North!” She took a deep breath and adjusted her volume, though she was still easily understood through the music and chatter. “A dreary castle is a small price to pay for a desirable husband. I'd live in a cave in the Lonely Hills before I'd agree to wed Robb Stark! I want Domeric. He is handsome, gallant, interesting and well-educated. Just like his father!”

Roose could still feel the girl's gaze pierce his back when she blurted the words out with an air of defiance. She was challenging him, wanted him to 'inadvertently' take note of the conversation, turn around and react to her candid confession. He hadn't done her that favor. This was neither the place nor time for such considerations, though he certainly appreciated the girl's ambition. In a way, he found it amusing that she tried to flatter him. An admirable effort, yet both ineffective and unnecessary in the end. Domeric made his own choices. If Gilliana wanted to wed him, it was him she'd have to impress. When it came to his father, she was wasting her words. Not because Roose didn't approve of her desire to wed his son. No, she had won him over before she was even trying. Had sparked pride and hope for the future in him. _Had chosen a Bolton over a Stark._

And now it was gone, this one glimpse of glory. A fading memory, echoing within Winterfell's haunted walls, that was all these hopes had become. The bastard who slept in the Winter Town, somewhere outside the fogged up window, would never further a legacy surpassing House Stark's. That had been Domeric's prerogative, his alone, and it lay buried with him in the frozen soil of a dreary castle.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Years ago, when Thoros had first arrived in the city, he had been welcomed by sunshine, not pouring rain. This time, King's Landing didn't do him the favor, didn't take the edge off an uncertain path with familiar warm weather. The turbulent, grey clouds released torrents upon the port and its workers, leaving only small islands of cobblestone pavement between a maze of wind-whipped puddles. Another, perhaps more notable, difference to the past was the fact that this time, Thoros didn't disembark all alone. And therein lay the reason for his current annoyance.

“Sweet Lord, didn't we have enough time to chat with the crew during the journey?” Thoros tried to withdraw further under the awning, but it didn't help much to escape the wind and the rain. “He's been burning to report our findings to Lord Stannis ever since we left Myr. Now we're right here, at the foot of Aegon's Hill, and all of a sudden he's dawdling around.”

“With his disposition for idle distractions, I'm not surprised his sister managed to trick him out of the throne.” Danyal smirked, but his amusement was fleeting.

“You're just miffed because Ghadir didn't pay you any attention,” Thoros dryly noted, watching Beric's futile attempts to block the rain from reaching Sandrine. She stood in the most sheltered spot under the awning, but where there was wind, there was also a way around a knight and his soaked cloak. “Did you know that the captain complained about 'my handsome friend, the one who's dressed like a bird' because 'he's a distraction to Brother Ghadir'?” Thoros nonchalantly asked, but before Danyal could retort, Jalabhar finally strode down the gangway and his companions sighed with relief.

 

The scents of stale beer and fried fish and being home welcomed them when the small party hurried through the door of the Dull Anchor. It was too early for the midday break of the dock workers, but the preparations of the cooks were already in full swing. There was clanging coming from behind the counter, and a handful of patrons hunched over mugs of ale at their tables, waiting for the kitchen to take the first orders of the day or just passing time before embarking. The drenched group heading for one of the larger tables only briefly drew their attention, and it took a while before a tavern wench emerged from a small room, perhaps the pantry.

“Had a good journey?” she inquired, glancing down to the luggage, then to the dripping cloaks on the backs of the chairs. “The kitchen won't be open for another hour,” she added before she got an answer to the casual question. “However, I can offer you fresh bread and herbed butter while you wait.”

“A drink is all I need,” Thoros gave back, earning a reproachful side glance from Sandrine. “For all the things the Free Cities have mastered, at the end of the day this side of the Narrow Sea has better wine.”

“Free Cities, eh? People say the climate is milder there this late in the season.” The wench sighed to herself and nodded to the nearest window. “Been raining for days here, except for the one time it hailed. Don't tell me you got homesick for this dreadful weather.” She paused and studied her guests when none of them reacted to the implied question why they had left the more temperate shores. “Ah, let me guess! You' must be here for the Tyrell wedding!” she then cheerfully concluded. “People say it's going to be quite the spectacle. You don't get celebrations like that in the Free Cities!”

Somewhat puzzled looks were exchanged, only Danyal nodded without missing a beat. “Yes, exactly,” he confirmed with an air of conviction. “My lord is a friend of Ser Loras, so we booked passage as soon as the news of the wedding reached us. Pentos and the cozier climate can wait another few weeks.”

Apparently, this claim satisfied the wench's curiosity. “I wish him and his bride at least a few rays of sunshine,” she said, then took the orders for drinks and hurried away toward the counter.

“We'll attend, won't we?” Beric burst out as soon as the woman was out of earshot. “This might be the last big event before winter and...” He broke off when a patron on a nearby table glanced over his shoulder from underneath his hood. “...there'll certainly be a joust,” Beric added, now more hushed, though his voice still carried unveiled excitement. Thoros took a deep breath and was about to remind him of the meaning of 'taking it easy', but he paused when the hooded man at the other table turned around and leaned closer.

“Pentos, huh?” He quietly chuckled. “Weather's just as nasty as it is here these days. Good thing the ship you arrived on came from Myr.”

“How would you know where we've been?” Danyal furrowed his brow and tried to stare down the stranger, an attempt somewhat hindered by Jalabhar blocking his line of sight. “Our travels are none of your business and I don't take kindly to nosy lurkers.”

“Saw you disembark through the window.” The man slightly shrugged, removed the hood and revealed his face. “Any other day, you'd be right; waiting around for uncertain arrivals is no longer my business. However, today, when it comes to you, it still is.” Ser Davos got up and came over when Thoros nodded to the only unoccupied chair. “Been a while since I nosily lurked about in port taverns,” Davos said and sat down between Jalabhar and Danyal. “Almost made me nostalgic, despite the twist stemming from Lord Stannis' orders.”

“Twist?” Thoros sighed and glanced to the counter where the wench was busy filling mugs on a tray. “Don't tell me he changed his mind in our absence.” He looked to Sandrine, then back to Davos. “If we whisked away the Priestess Provost for nothing, Lord Stannis owes us an explanation.”

“Twist for me, for what I used to be used to,” Davos brushed away the concern. “Back in my day, I was dealing with contraband, concealed things you wouldn't know were there unless you were looking closely.” His eyes wandered to Jalabhar. “My cargo wasn't conspicuous and colorful, it didn't draw any attention. Running errands for the crown is child's play compared to the work of a smuggler, and admittedly it sometimes lacks thrill.” He leaned to the side when the wench arrived with the orders, and let her place the mugs in front of her guests. “Though I'm sure not complaining,” Davos then added. “Don't nurse those drinks for too long, I can also do without the thrill of Stannis finding out we were dawdling.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Ser Davos declined Thoros' offer to buy him a cup of wine, but he patiently waited and didn't hurry the party along. However, the conversation didn't quite fit the cozy atmosphere. On the surface, it was casual chatter about the Free Cities, but Thoros had spent enough time at court to read between the lines. The vague hints, the things Davos said he'd 'explain later', the way he covertly glanced to other patrons to make sure they paid him no attention; it all painted a disconcerting picture in Thoros' mind. Secrecy was hardly a stranger at court, but it was a game played by men with a fondness for whispers, and that description fit neither him nor Lord Stannis.

When they left the Dull Anchor, the rain had faded into a drizzle, but the clouds hung so low in the sky they seemed to scrape the roofs of the towers and it was only a matter of time before the next downpour would begin. The incessant wind whipped up water from muddy puddles as the group followed Ser Davos through hidden alleys, avoiding the busier streets around Fishmonger's Square. He was more forthcoming now about what transpired in the past weeks, and the more Thoros listened the more he wished he had just stayed in Myr.

“Apologies, my lady.” Davos gestured to Sandrine, letting her know she could remove the hood of his cloak. The group had entered the Red Keep through a small door inside an unmanned guardhouse and now ascended a narrow flight of winding stairs. “As I said, things have been tense lately. The disguise wasn't meant to offend you, I only thought it better to not give people reason to whisper about strange goings-on.”

Jalabhar raised his eyebrows and regarded their guide for a short while. “And you thought _this_ guise was a wise choice to calm down slanderous rumors? If someone saw you smuggling whores into the Red Keep through the postern...”

“Then that someone would carry on with his routine because nothing out of the ordinary happened,” Davos cut him off. “He'd have seen the king's drinking buddies taking a concealed woman to their chambers. That's hardly unusual, wouldn't you say?” He opened the door when they reached the landing and waited for the group to go through.

“Receiving foreign dignitaries is the king's daily business.” Jalabhar huffed, but he entered the hallway. “Nobody would think twice if we walked through the main gate.”

“With all due respect, you're not the most dignified dignitaries around,” Davos gave back. “And there are many eyes watching the main gate from hidden corners, a thousand 'little birds' taking note of who comes and goes.” He paused and regarded Jalabhar and Thoros, then cleared his throat. “Lord Stannis has been pestered more than ever by unruly lords. They're convinced the Red Keep has become a cesspool of sin and demand a swift resolution to the queen's alleged offenses. The last thing Lord Stannis needs is for these lords to add 'heresy' to their list of complaints. Daily business or not, it's not a good time for the king to receive foreign priests.” He turned to Sandrine with the suggestion of a bow. “Again, I apologize for the circumstances, my lady. If you would please follow me? Lord Stannis asked to see you right away.”

Sandrine nodded with a smile and handed Davos his drenched cloak. “I understand these are trying times,” she said. “I wouldn't be here if I wasn't needed. The circumstances of my arrival aren't important and wearing your cloak didn't offend me. There are disguises more insulting than 'a whore fit for a king'.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“You stay put!” Thoros shot his strictest glare to Beric, sitting on the edge of the bed and rolling his eyes. “We'll explain our absence to Robert in person, just to make sure we're still welcome at court. And Lord Stannis probably expects our report regarding the stray dragon in Essos.” His eyes wandered to Danyal though he stood with his back turned to Thoros, calmly inspecting the collection of rare vintages on a shelf. “Just wait here for me, I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't run off to any tourneys in the meantime.”

“I'm taking my orders from Lord Beric,” Danyal gave back with an air of importance, took a bottle of Braavosi wine from the shelf and studied the label. “However, I might do a brother in faith a favor...” He turned around and nonchalantly presented the bottle with a wide smile.

“Don't get all high and mighty with me and show some respect to the clergy.” Thoros scoffed, feigning offense, but he gave a quick nod to the wine. “If it keeps you busy, be my guest. Tastes like cat piss though.” He paused when he saw Jalabhar had returned from his chambers in dry robes and impatiently tapped his foot outside on the hallway. “If you want a real bribe to keep an eye on your lord, I recommend the Dornish Red,” Thoros added, threw his wet cloak over a trunk, then left the room.

 

“You still worry about his condition?” Jalabhar asked as they walked down the long hallway.

Thoros answered with a silent nod and waited for a servant to pass them by in the other direction. “The confusion wore off, the headaches are gone, but there are still some oddities in his behavior,” he said once the man was out of earshot. “Of course, Beric disagrees and finds my concern irksome. And frankly, there's nothing inherently alarming, just some subtle changes that strike me as strange.”

Jalabhar thought for a moment, apparently trying to recall such situations during the journey. “I don't know Beric as well as you do, but I take your word for it if you say he's not quite himself.” He glanced over his shoulder, making sure the servant was really too far away to overhear their hushed conversation. “And I agree with you about him and Ser Danyal taking the aftermath of a divine resurrection rather lightly. As 'irksome' as your concern might be to them, I don't blame you for keeping a close eye on your friend.”

“It might be nothing,” Thoros admitted. “Could just be the excitement that makes him so giddy and restless. He wanted to visit the Free Cities for years and finally got the chance when he didn't expect it. But I wish he'd let Sandrine take a another look, if only to confirm that he's right and I'm the one blowing things out of proportion.”

“I doubt I can convince him if you can't.” Jalabhar opened the door to the stairwell leading up to the royal chambers. “But what I can do is give our report to Lord Stannis. Get you off the hook, so you can attend Ser Loras' wedding and make sure Beric heeds Lady Sandrine's advice regarding the joust.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Thoros gave back when they went up the stairs. “I suppose you'll have more to tell him either way. We both had our share of distractions during this journey, but yours knew more about Viserys Targaryen's affairs than mine.”


	28. Summer's Brides

“...and though our combined efforts only brought little new information to light, the royal couple's appearance during Prince Tommen's name day celebration shifted the public opinion in the crown's favor. The unrest in the streets has begun to calm down and previously reluctant sources approached me with new leads, helping along the continuous investigations,” Varys concluded his report to the Small Council.

Why Lord Baelish had bothered to request an unscheduled meeting was anyone's guess. Nobody had any urgent developments to discuss, perhaps with the exception of Lord Tarly. He had chalked up a small victory in the streets, but it didn't take a council meeting to see that there were no disgruntled rioters at the gates of the Red Keep. Tarly was visibly displeased about being summoned away from his duties and had therefore kept his report accordingly short.

Varys, on the other hand, had given a lengthy statement about his lack of progress, and judging by the expressions of his peers, Stannis was not alone with his irritation. Lord Tarly looked impatient, Grand Maester Pycelle appeared to be half-asleep, Ser Barristan had excused himself from the session after reporting that he had nothing to report. Baelish had gone back and forth between looking bored and betraying subtle amusement while listening, to a point where Stannis suspected this was the very reason for calling in this meeting. The Master of Whispers standing empty-handed before the Small Council, trying to create the illusion of having everything under control; a hollow victory for Baelish in their eternal, meaningless quarrel. Whether this was truly another interlude in their petty rivalry or not, it was definitely a waste of everyone's time.

“I wish I could share Lord Varys' hopeful disposition.” Lord Baelish unfolded his hands and leaned forward. “But I'm afraid this respite is not owed to our doing. The unrest in the streets didn't fade because Lord Tarly issued increased patrols. The birds aren't singing different songs because His Grace sat next to the queen for one day.” He paused for effect and took a deep breath, reinforcing Stannis' suspicion that this meeting served no other purpose than Baelish's personal entertainment. “No, my lords, we should direct our gratitude southwards, to unwitting saviors. The wedding at Highgarden provides a fleeting distraction. For a week or two, people will be too preoccupied with their imagination to cause us more headache, but once their fascination wears off, we'll be back where we started.”

“We better not be.” Jon Arryn arose from his chair and let his gaze wander across the men at the table. “This is not a 'respite'. This is the time to double and triple our efforts. Use it wisely, because it will be the last distraction we'll get.” He was about to gather his notes and conclude the meeting, but Lord Baelish's all too casual voice held him back.

“My ears are not as attuned to songbirds as Lord Varys', but I happened to overhear the chatter of seagulls yesterday.” Petyr Baelish nonchalantly turned his eyes away from the Hand and looked to Stannis instead. “They claimed red robes are making a comeback in King's Landing, only weeks after you decided they should go out of style. Since we're on the subject of distractions, perhaps you could enlighten me about this curious change of mind.”

 

Stannis internally grunted as he directed his glare toward Baelish. In the past months, he had almost been some sort of ally even though he didn't question things out of true interest. Now it felt like a betrayal that he was the one who had paid too close attention to who came and went through hidden gates. The next scheduled council meeting was only four days away, ample time to prepare a report, to baffle Pycelle with facts regarding the events in the Free Cities. But no. Baelish just had to stick his nose where it didn't belong. Had to announce his discovery right away, had to spite Varys, had to drag out this moment, this petty triumph.

“A concession,” Stannis flatly gave back. “Weeks ago, when I decided to send them away, rumors about the absurd plans for a 'winter tourney' made the rounds. It contributed to the unrest in the streets, our main concern at the time.” It sounded plausible enough, didn't it? At least plausible enough to not let on he was making it up on the fly. “Now our situation has changed and there are greater concerns than we could have imagined,” Stannis continued after assuring himself of the credibility of his explanation. “The king is furious and impatient for a resolution we don't have. Drinking with his friends distracts him, gives him an outlet for his anger while we do what needs to be done.”

Varys nodded along with the words, but a much too gentle smile played on his lips. “Indeed, a public outburst of anger would not aid our cause,” he said. “However, my little birds tell me that red is not only the fashion for men. Apparently it extends to worldly women as well. May I ask what purpose _her_ presence in the Red Keep serves, my lord? Surely His Grace needs no further female distractions in these trying times...”

Stannis shot a covert glance to Baelish and froze for a heartbeat when he saw an apparent lack of surprise. _He knew that Varys knew?_ This was not a move in their strange game of whispers, their constant ambition to be better informed than the other?

“It appears to be yet another strange fad washed ashore from the Free Cities.” Grand Maester Pycelle had woken up from his senile slumber, and he, too, sounded utterly unfazed by the current subject.

Trying his hardest to hide the disbelief in his eyes, Stannis looked to Lord Tarly and finally found some measure of solace in his indifferent, slightly puzzled expression. At least one man at the table hadn't concerned himself with the affairs of other councilmen. Two, assuming Selmy had been busy with the preparations for Prince Tommen's celebration in the past week. A small consolation, considering the precautions Stannis had taken to address this subject on his terms, at his chosen time.

“I assure you, Lord Varys, this is no reason for concern,” Pycelle continued. “I have known Lord Stannis' guest for a long time. Lady Sandrine is a highly respected healer and a valued trade contact of mine, not a back alley warlock with malicious intentions.”

“I sent for her weeks ago, after you voiced concerns about the 'miracles' occurring in the Free Cities.” Stannis got up from his chair and picked up his notes, hiding the bemusement in his eyes behind a collected facade. “At the time, I didn't expect her to accept my invitation, but since she is here now I'm sure we'll get an explanation for these 'strange events'. I wouldn't want this worry to distract you from more important matters.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The session had been closed without further questions or pointless reports, but the last part of the conversation still echoed in Stannis' mind when he had almost reached the stairs to his study. It had barely been a day since the ship from Myr had arrived in the city, yet these nosy buggers had already known about it. They hadn't even given him a chance to sit down and talk to his guest, no time to prepare a report that would justify her unannounced presence. A few weeks ago, they had accused him of having the wrong priorities when he brought up the North, had complained when he supported Baelish's position and decided the events in Essos were nothing to worry about. Now it was them who latched onto distractions, and now it was Baelish who stabbed him in the back with an unscheduled session to catch him off guard.

Lost in his huff, he almost didn't notice the footsteps echoing behind him until he stopped outside the door to the stairwell. “Lord Baelish,” Stannis pressed out between gritted teeth when he finally spotted his pursuer, hovering in the hallway with a nonchalant smile.

“News travel fast within these walls, don't they?” Baelish regarded the brickwork as if he could see the echoes of past conversations drift by. “No matter how hard you try, how smart you think you are, how many precaution you take... No secret ever remains truly secret in here.” Unimpressed by Stannis' glowering stare, he came closer. “Some days it's a blessing, some days it's a curse. And an intriguing challenge, if you're so inclined.”

“What is your point?” Stannis' hand let go off the doorknob. He certainly didn't feel like making small talk on the hallway, but he felt even less like allowing Baelish to follow him up to the study.

“You made a valiant effort, my lord.” Baelish didn't share Stannis' dislike of idle chatter, the tone of his voice made that abundantly clear. “Pressuring drunkards into running your errands with a threat of deportation... Ingenious! It could have been my idea!” His smile faded and gave way to an almost comically serious expression. “Though I would have considered that certain parties keep a closer eye on hidden doors than the main gate. Parties more concerned with their public perception than our king.” For a moment, his posture changed to mimic a hunchback and his graceful steps briefly suggested a limp. “Senile or vain, I can't tell,” Baelish added after ending his silent charade. “But apparently he thinks nobody pays attention to his indiscretions.” He smirked and turned to leave just when Stannis found his voice.

“Why did you summon the council?” he asked, too puzzled to make the words come out as harsh as intended. “Why didn't you tell me about this in private?”

Baelish answered with a shrug and a roguish smile. “That's the first lesson you need to learn if you want to play games of deception,” he said as he sashayed down the hallway. “There will always be surprises, my lord.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Wish that was me on that horse right now,” Robert said, but he only half-meant it. His gaze followed the riders far below on the yard, moving toward the gate and the freedom beyond. On one hand, the thought of leaving the city was more appealing than ever, being up and away, far from duty and troubles. On the other hand, it had been raining for weeks, and though it was only a drizzle today, it still made for an unpleasant ride. The Roseroad would be squishy and muddy, and the overcast southern sky held no promise for sunnier weather. “Out of all the Tyrells, Ser Loras is the one I wouldn't mind seeing. Good lad, always puts on a good show on the lists. Much more entertaining than some of the old farts.” He stepped away from the window and turned around to face Jalabhar, sitting on a lavish sofa and patiently listening to the absent musings. “If only he'd be a better man's son... That's his one glaring flaw, the pompous dunce he calls 'father'.” Robert huffed to himself, grabbed a carafe from a sideboard and wandered toward the sofa. “At least Thoros won't have to endure the dull stories he 'regaled' me with during visits.”

“I assure you he'll be most grateful for that,” Jalabhar gave back, drank the last sip from his glass and put it down on the table. “And should Lord Tyrell, against all expectations, have a new tale to recite, Thoros will certainly report about it.”

“I don't give a shit if Mace Tyrell heard a new story or claims another victory from the past as his own!” Robert slammed the carafe on the table, let himself sink into an armchair and sighed. “Why are we even wasting time discussing this windbag? There are more important matters than his delusions of grandeur.” With a lazy gesture he beckoned Jalabhar to refill the glasses, then watched the wine being poured from the carafe. Maybe listening to Mace Tyrell's trite tales would be the lesser evil, all things considered, but wasn't the grass always greener on the other side? “Things have changed in your absence.” Robert looked back to Jalabhar, tried to remind himself of the matters at hand. “And as much as I envy your excursion to the Free Cities, I can't hold it against you. Under different circumstances, you'd never hear the end of it, you know that. But as it is, I'm just relieved you came back.”

Jalabhar handed him the glass, but left his own on the table. “What choice did I have? Unless you give in to my pleas for an army, I have nowhere to go.” He regarded the wine for a moment, then leaned back against the sofa's frilly cushions. “Nowhere this comfortable anyway,” he added with a chuckle, taking the edge off a remark not quite said in jest.

“I've offered you my crown more than once, but you wouldn't take it! Is none of the Seven Kingdoms good enough for a prince?” Robert guffawed, but his heart was not in it. The laughter abruptly ceased and for a moment the room was filled with a heavy silence. “Viserys Targaryen,” he then said, looking Jalabhar straight in the eye.

“What about him?” Jalabhar took his glass from the table and sloshed the wine around before drinking a sip. “You heard my report. I left nothing out, there simply isn't anything else to tell.”

Robert's brow furrowed in thought and he now stared down the glass in his hand. “So there's no army,” he plainly noted. “That inbred bastard won't take my throne either. What in the world is wrong with princes these days?” His words lacked any amusement and no laughter followed, instead Robert took a big swig from his wine and leaned back.

“People rarely sit down with khals to discuss agreements other than the amount of their tribute.” Jalabhar took another sip, then put the glass back on the table. “It is possible that Viserys traded his sister for a horde of savage warriors. Possible, but unlikely. It appears he traded her for a chance to steal dragon eggs and misjudged the opportunities of selling them to fund a more orderly army.” He shrugged and adjusted the cushions behind him. “I'm not surprised he can't find buyers. The Dothraki may think of the eggs as little more than curious trinkets, but they don't take kindly to thieves. Whether the stolen goods were valuable or useful to them doesn't matter to horse lords. These are savages. They don't have masters of laws or trials like we do. Fence or buyer, trinket or treasure... There's no difference, the punishment is always the same.”

 

“Formidable warriors though.” Robert reached for the carafe. His glass wasn't empty yet, but he refilled it nonetheless. “I should be mad at the dragon prince for denying me the opportunity to fight against such a force.” One swig and the glass had returned to its previous, half-empty state before Robert raised it over his head. “Imagine that, a Dothraki invasion! The thunder of a thousand hooves on our shores!” He lowered his arm and sighed with resignation. “Fear, Jalabhar, that's what unites people. If they feel threatened, they forget about petty quarrels and gossip. They rally behind the shield that protects them, the sword or the hammer that fends off the invader.” He emptied the glass in one go, then leaned back in his chair. “A looming threat from the east would sure shut up those pesky rumors. The Mad King's son isn't doing me any favors with his miscalculation.”

“Perhaps.” Jalabhar regarded him with some concern in his eyes. “But 'looming threats' have a habit of taking on a more tangible form at some point. They don't conveniently remain on distant shores forever. The fear of winter alone may not be enough to silence insolent rumors, but it takes a toll on the realms nonetheless. Add a viable threat of invasion and it might result in a more volatile situation than the unrest you seek to combat.”

“An unfortunate truth.” Robert sighed, heaved himself out of the chair and wandered back to the window. “The first winter under my rule...” His gaze drifted to the dull sky over King's Landing. “'Unusually long and harsh'... Even the fucking weather conspires against me!” He let out a humorless laughter and turned around to Jalabhar again. “I called off the tourney.” There was regret in his voice, paired with resigned acceptance. “I thought a diversion like that would see me through ten years of boredom, but considering the turbulent past weeks, it appears I won't need one.” He took a bottle from the shelf under the window and absently studied the label. “Haven't told Stannis yet, but I'm sure he'll be relieved.”

Jalabhar poured the little wine that was left in the carafe into his glass and drank a sip. “I admit I'm surprised,” he said after a short silence. “But you're probably right. If the coming of winter provides no distraction, the prospect of a tourney won't take peoples' minds of those rumors either.”

 

“It's not about distractions anymore.” Robert returned to the armchair, sat down and put the wine on the table. “Stannis tells me we're struggling enough to fill pantries and cellars without the additional expenses of a long tourney. The prices for food from the Reach climb higher and higher, they'll probably rival Casterly Rock by the time the first snow falls south of the Neck. Imports from the Free Cities keep coming, but they aren't cheap either, and inland distribution further drives up the cost.” He took a deep breath and almost chuckled when he noticed Jalabhar's somewhat stumped expression. “I've come to trust my brother's advice in your absence,” Robert said. “And that is why I asked you here. I need an impartial opinion, old friend.”

Jalabhar pointedly glanced to the door, then to the empty seats on the sofa next to him. “You want _my_ impartial opinion regarding your brother?” His voice carried disbelief and baffled amusement. “I'd bet quite some coins on me having spent less time with Lord Stannis than anyone else in the Red Keep, except Thoros and perhaps the squire Ser Karas took into service two months ago.”

“I know, I know.” Robert waved the notion aside and reached for the bottle. “Every servant had more meaningful conversations with Stannis while serving him supper. It's not him I want to ask you about.” He uncorked the bottle and refilled his glass once again. “What can you tell me about the scholar you brought him? Stannis, he's always had this strange thirst for knowledge. Always wanted to understand how things work, cause and effect. Now he got his teeth into alleged 'miracles' and the thought that Pycelle withholds information, and he thinks this woman can shed light on both.” He took a sip and furtively watched Jalabhar over the rim of his glass. “But what's her agenda? What does she hope to gain from humoring him?”

Jalabhar undecidedly shrugged, emptied his glass and reached for the new bottle. “I didn't get the impression she's out to convert him, if that is what you are worried about,” he said while filling his glass. “But perhaps you should ask Thoros about...”

“No.” Robert shook his head and put his glass on the table. “It's not a matter of trust, you know that. But this woman practically raised him in the Red Temple of Myr. I know the sway our mentors can have even many years later. Look at me, I put a badge on mine and made him my Hand!”

Jalabhar nodded and sloshed the wine around in his glass. “As much as I'd like to offer my advice,” he began as he slowly lifted his gaze from the wine and looked back to Robert. “But I'm afraid I don't have any insights to give. 'I go where the Lord of Light guides me', that was her answer when the captain inquired about her business in King's Landing.”

For a while it was silent as Robert considered what he had heard with a thoughtful expression. “For the blink of an eye, I felt like a real politician, a shrewd king consulting in secret with his trusted adviser. Should have known I'm not cut out for whispers and clandestine meetings.” He took a deep breath and sank back into the cushioned armchair, then a knowing smile slowly crept up on his face. “Perhaps I should do this the old-fashioned way. We'll have a feast tonight in the small dining hall, you and I, my Hand, my brother and his red priestess. Good food and wine might loosen her tongue and give us some insights as to why this Lord of Light led her to our shores.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Highgarden was overflowing with decorations. A wealth of yellow and orange roses made the terraces outside the walls look as if summer would never end in the Reach. The food and wine was exquisite, each course of delicacies surpassed the last in opulence and flavor during the feast. The entertainment was plentiful and varied. Minstrels played cheerful tunes, fools and acrobats from the Free Cities competed for attention, there were new attractions wherever one looked. The weather, against all gloomy predictions and light rain on the previous day, held up and granted the event a few rays of sunshine. Even the bridal couple was in high spirits, or had at least perfected their act to give the public this impression.

Still, the merry facade couldn't fully obscure that something wasn't quite right about this celebration. It was an all too peaceful clash of familiar faces and strangers Thoros could barely identify by their colors or coats of arms. Every last house of the Reach was represented, from the Arbor to Tumbleton, from the Shield Islands to the Grassy Vale. The Stormlands had shown up in great numbers as well, yet guests from the Riverlands and Crownlands were strangely absent from the sprawling gardens. Instead there were more Dornish parties than Thoros had ever expected to see north of the Red Mountains, and that alone painted an unusual picture in the heart of the Reach.

It also stood out to Thoros that he, along with a seemingly arbitrary group of other guests, had to wait this long to present his gift to the couple. He had a feeling that this hadn't been their idea and the suspicion grew stronger the longer he waited. Satal's facade showed a crack when she accepted the gift of Lord Langward and his wife with an apologetic nod to Lady Olenna. The Queen of Thorns was chatting to Margaery and Lord Tyrell a few seats to Satal's right, but the blithe demeanor was deceiving. She kept an eye on the guests as they approached, took note of their gifts and their exchange with the couple. When Thoros put his crate of spiced rum on the table, Loras' eyes briefly darted to his grandmother and his thanks sounded stilted, as if he was reciting a poem he didn't especially like.

 

After this drawn out part of the celebration, the joust was supposed to begin. However, there was still a crowd when Thoros left the table and it would probably be another hour or two before they'd have presented their gifts. Enough time to make sure Beric hadn't acted on his jesting threats. “If my name, by chance or mistake, ended up on the lists, it would be quite inappropriate to insist on its removal,” he had pondered out loud the evening before. “How would you explain that I'm in no condition to fight? You can't tell Lord Tyrell that I died and was resurrected. What reason would you give him when he asks why I should be barred? Unlike you, I'm sure he'd see I'm perfectly fine.” The roguish smile framed this theoretical situation as a joke, but Beric had come up with such theories much too often to not make Thoros wary since they had left King's Landing.

“What are you doing here?” Thoros grabbed Danyal by the arm and pulled him out of a cluster of boys gathered under an awning. “And where is Beric? You said you'd keep an eye on him for me and make sure he doesn't put his name on the list behind my back!”

Danyal freed himself from the grip, turned back to the boys and told them to give him a moment before he acknowledged Thoros' presence. “I'm surveying my options,” he said with an air of importance. “This is the last great tourney before winter. The last, best chance to take on a squire before spring.”

“A squire, you?” Thoros regarded Danyal for a short, puzzled moment, then his gaze wandered to the apparent contenders. He counted seven if he excluded the boys barely old enough to be pages, all well-dressed and displaying impeccable manners. “Quite the options you have,” Thoros noted, not hiding the skepticism in his voice. “Beesbury, Tarly, Allyrion, Blackmont... Who would have thought such noble houses scramble to put their sons in the service of a knight who hasn't won any tourneys...” He looked back to Danyal with narrowed eyes. “What did you tell them?”

Danyal's smile was much too innocuous when he answered. “I may have mentioned in passing that Beric won't accept a squire who hasn't proven his worth by serving me first for a year.” He crossed his arms and nonchalantly made a step away from the awning. “I admit Beric may have phrased it a bit differently, but maybe he'll come around once he remembers the convenience of having a squire.”

“He didn't phrase it 'a bit differently'.” Thoros' gaze wandered away from Danyal and his would-be squires, across the tables and awnings dotting the terraces of Highgarden. “He said 'too bad I don't have a squire' before he sent you out in the rain to get the bread from the saddlebags when none of us wanted to leave the cozy tent last night.” He paused when he spotted someone wearing a black cloak among a group of knights in the distance, but turned back to Danyal when he saw it was Lord Costayne. “Where is Beric? I saw him leave the table with you! You're his sworn shield, you're supposed to stay with him. Especially when your lord travels without his guards!”

Danyal rolled his eyes and put an arm around Thoros' shoulder, then dragged him a step further away from the boys. “This is a wedding, not the Battle of Pyke.” He leaned down some closer and lowered his voice. “You keep telling him something is off and maybe there is. After all, he was dead.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder to see if the aspiring squires tried to eavesdrop. “But now he isn't,” Danyal continued. “Now he's alive and just wants to feel normal. How is he supposed to do that if you keep hovering over him like a hen guarding its egg?”

Thoros glared up to him from the corner of his eye and sighed to himself. “I wouldn't worry if he was indeed acting 'normal',” he replied, just as hushed.

“Yet you don't want him to joust. That would be him 'acting normal' on a tourney.” Danyal chuckled at Thoros' stern glare and nodded to a tricolored pavilion across the terrace. “Last I saw him, he was talking to Ser Justin Massey over there. And no, they were not conspiring to put his name on the list.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“If you would excuse me for a moment?” Renly got up and took a step back from the table when he saw Margaery swaying toward the bright orange pavilion. “I need to speak to some friends I haven't seen in a while.” The guests on the table nodded, though some seemed reluctant to let the man who had made the introductions leave. While the Redwyne twins and Lord Hightower's sons tried to make small talk with mild enthusiasm, Princess Arianne Martell looked like she'd rather be somewhere else. Out of her companions only Prince Oberyn had made an effort to keep the chat going, which was a better start than Renly had expected. However, it hadn't exactly built any bridges. Oberyn's forthright questions had bordered on an interrogation and none of the Redwynes or Hightowers could keep up with the wits of his sharp tongue. Things had calmed down since Lord Paxter Redwyne had joined the group and, perhaps in wise foresight, brought his best wine in hopes of breaking the ice. It served as a welcome diversion for Oberyn who seemed more relaxed now, but it hadn't alleviated Arianne's overt boredom. Hopefully, Renly thought, she'd unbend a bit more in the company of a lady. The introductions had been made. From here on, it was Margaery's game.

 

“You appear to have picked up some curious habits on your travels...” Renly chuckled when his voice jolted Beric out of his distraction. He looked up and studied Renly for a moment, then his eyes wandered down to his empty cup on the table, skimmed the spot where Justin Massey had sat a short while ago, apparently realizing he had left the bench just now, and finally rested on Renly again.

“Curious habits?” Beric sounded slightly miffed at the remark, though perhaps it was owed to the surprise stemming from Renly's sneaky approach or his dislike of weddings. “What do you mean? I've only been sitting here, talking to Ser Justin. What is so curious about that?”

Renly raised his eyebrows and took a seat next to Beric after throwing a glance over his shoulder and assuring himself that Margaery had taken over his guests. “Nothing,” he said, pointedly casual. “I'm just surprised to see you with him instead of Thoros.” He flicked Beric's empty cup with his finger. “And your name is conspicuously absent from the list. That is a little curious, considering this is the last tourney before the onset of winter and everyone who could afford a lance has signed up.”

“I...” Beric quickly grabbed his cup and brought it to his lips, only to be reminded that it was empty. “My tourney armor is at Blackhaven.” He pushed the cup away and crossed his arms. “The armorer was supposed to make some repairs, but he didn't finish in time. I wouldn't want to look like a hedge knight with borrowed armor on Loras' wedding, so I'll just watch from the sidelines.”

If Renly hadn't had an odd impression when he came over to Beric's table, he surely would have gotten it now. “I noticed that, too.” Renly's glance casually wandered across the terraces. “It's what first struck me as curious. I came over because I figured you might want some advice in that regard.” _That, and because I need a more easygoing diversion after the taut start with the Martells._

Beric regarded him with puzzlement and it took a moment before he answered. “Noticed what? Why would I need advice about not participating in a tourney?”

“I noticed your commitment to 'watching from the sidelines'.” Renly chuckled and waved to a servant for wine. Once two filled cups stood on the table and the man had hurried away to serve other guests, Renly leaned closer to Beric and nodded to a nearby pavilion. “Lady Beesbury may have put her hives on display in a rather obvious fashion, but I don't think she appreciates your blatant stare.”

Beric's head immediately spun around and he stared wide-eyed at Renly, as if to negate the very possibility of this accusation and make absolutely, undeniably clear he was not looking in Lady Beesbury's direction. The verbal rejection of this notion, however, didn't carry the same conviction. “I don't know what you're talking about! I was looking at her massy... for Justin Massey! I was just trying to see her be... if he was standing behind her!”

Renly chuckled into his cup and put it down without drinking. “Behind her? So you were staring at Lady Shyra?” he asked, keeping a straight face despite the teasing tone of the question. “My apologies, I didn't mean to draw false conclusions. The sight of ladies making the most of their last chance to wear summer fashion can be quite distracting...” The words faded into a giggle when Beric, flustered and with red cheeks, kept glowering at him. “Fine, I don't know the first thing about the allures of women.” Renly drank a sip and leaned closer to Beric. “All jesting aside, have you changed your mind since my tourney? Maybe seeing Loras and Satal so happy together inspired you? If you're looking for a bride, I can make some introductions... “

“I'm not looking for a bride, I'm not staring at anyone, I'm not competing because I don't have my armor!” Beric got up, leaving the cup untouched on the table. “There's nothing 'curious' about me or my behavior!” He paused and took a deep breath. “I appreciate the offer, but it won't be necessary,” he added, now more composed. “The joust is about to begin, I believe. Are you going to join me on the sidelines?”

Renly shook his head and emptied his cup, then got up and nodded toward the pavilion he had left in Margaery's care. “I'm afraid I have other obligations,” he said. “Loras and Satal have laid the foundation to a new era of friendship, but it will take time for the dessert roses to grow accustomed to our climate. I'm sure Thoros will keep you company though. He's been looking for you all over the gardens.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovecraft meets Westeros continues with a voyage from Oldtown to Naath to the Basilisk Isles: [The Long Summer Of Maester Jeraume](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007212/chapters/45137587).


	29. Afterglow

When Thoros opened his eyes he was surprised to see the golden glow of early daylight peek in through the flap of the tent. Ever since they had departed from Highgarden two days ago, the sky had been overcast as if the rain clouds were chasing them to Blackhaven. The previous day on the road had been an interplay of drizzle and sudden showers, and the unexpectedly sunny morning was a more than welcome change of pace. Thoros sat up, careful to not wake Danyal and Beric, stretched his back and arms and instantly froze in this position. Neither Danyal nor Beric was in the tent, and he didn't hear their voices from outside either.

Quickly, Thoros crawled to the flap, pulled it open and breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw Danyal sitting next to a small fire. “You're up early,” Thoros greeted him as he climbed out of the tent.

“I suppose so,” Danyal gave back with a shrug. “Beric told me to make a fire and dry his cloak. Probably thinks we'll be spared from another downpour today.” He nodded to the cloak, draped over two long branches, then turned to Thoros with a pensive expression. “And speaking of fire...”

“Where is Beric?” Thoros cut him off, sat down on a log and looked around on their campsite. Danyal's voice was just a tad too earnest, too thoughtful, this was the tone he used when he tried to lull people in, and this realization piqued Thoros' suspicions.

“Watering the horses.” Danyal picked up a stick and poked the fire with it, as if to direct Thoros' attention to the flickering flames. “About fire, I was wondering...”

“The horses are right over there,” Thoros noted, pointedly looking to their mounts by the trees.

“He's getting water for them from the stream.” Danyal's reply came too quickly, as did his anew attempt at directing the conversation to a different subject. “I was wondering... When you look into the flames and see a vision, can I see it as well if I look at the same time? Does one have to be a red priest for those insights or is it something I could learn? If it is the latter, perhaps you could teach...”

“With which bucket?” Thoros interjected through gritted teeth, ignoring Danyal's musings about visions completely. “We didn't have one last night. Don't tell me you happened to find one in the forest this morning.” He got up and glared down to Danyal as he went around him, toward the edge of the forest. “Let's try this again. Where is Beric?”

“Went to take a leak in the forest,” Danyal said with innocent eyes, jumped up and positioned himself between Thoros and the treeline. “No need to worry, he'll be back any moment.”

Thoros' eyes narrowed and he stepped closer, going nose to nose with Danyal who valiantly stood his ground. “Do you _know_ where is? Or was he gone when you woke up and you're just _hoping_ he'll be back before I notice you're neglecting your duty as his guard?”

Danyal held Thoros' gaze, but the guileless expression was gone. “I _am_ doing my duty,” he barked back. “I'm guarding him from your strict watch! Yes, he went into the forest, alone and unarmed, and no, I don't know where exactly he is!” He paused and thought for a moment, then continued in a more moderate volume. “I have a hunch _what_ he is doing since he was rather firm about not wanting to be disturbed even by us, but it's none of our business. He ordered me to keep you busy until he gets back, and that is exactly what I am doing.”

“Oh.” Thoros blankly stared at Danyal as the sudden realization sank in, and the fighting stance turned into slouched shoulders. “Why didn't he just say something?” he asked after a short silence, making an undecided step back to the fire.

“You know how he is, he likes his discretion.” Danyal followed him and picked up the cloak to rearrange it on the branches. “Telling you he plans to disappear into the forest would only concern you, and what he doesn't like is seeing you worried for no reason at all. Guess he wanted to be subtle to not further upset you. But whenever he tried to excuse himself, the mother hen puffed up and dragged him back to the nest.” Once the cloak was firmly fastened on the branches, Danyal sat down and slowly waved it over the fire. “You could at least thank me for not letting him wander off into the dark forest at night,” he added, glancing to Thoros from the corner of his eye.

Still taken aback, Thoros didn't say anything and only gave Danyal an acknowledging nod. It was unlikely Beric would have left the fire at night, but knowing this didn't diminish the sentiment. Danyal hadn't taken his concerns serious, but Thoros still appreciated the willingness to compromise for his sake. He shot a glance over his shoulder to the treeline behind the tent, then picked up a twig and poked around in the fire. “About visions...” he finally said after clearing his throat. “I'm out of practice, but I suppose I can try to show you something in the flames. No promises that it will work right away, but it will at least keep me busy for a while.”

“Good enough for me.” Danyal smirked and put the cloak and the branches aside. “Just don't run off into the forest. For all I care, you can recite Valyrian poetry and make some ominous gestures. As long as Beric won't have any spectators for whatever he's doing, my duty is done.”

Thoros raised his eyebrows and looked from the fire to Danyal with feigned irritation. “Why would I run into the forest? I didn't even notice Beric was gone until you pointed it out. He's probably getting water for the horses or taking a leak, nothing to worry about. You're not neglecting your duty as his guard.” Danyal chuckled, but otherwise remained silent as Thoros turned his attention back to the fire, made some ominous gestures and tried to recall the first verse of a prayer.

“Horse! Cat! Fish! Dog! Castle!” Danyal leaned closer to the flames, but expectantly glanced over to Thoros. “Wine? Jug? Woman? Ship?”

“Maybe you should let me finish the summon,” Thoros suggested with an air of importance, but he didn't get any further. The crunching of dry leaves and twigs and the cracking of branches made both him and Danyal turn around to the tent.

 

Beric looked like he had just witnessed the tragedy of Summerhal. He was pale as a ghost and staggered more than he walked, almost tripping over the tent as he stared into the distance instead of paying attention to where he stepped. For a moment, Danyal and Thoros just stared in confusion, then they jumped up and rushed over to him. “I don't know how that happened,” Beric muttered under his breath. “It was green, I'm sure it was green and lush, but now it's all black... Black and dead.”

Thoros and Danyal exchanged a bewildered glance, grabbed Beric under the arms and dragged him to the fire. “What happened?” Thoros asked once they had sat him down. At first, he had been relieved that Beric at least recognized him, but what he muttered to himself didn't make any sense. “What was green? What is dead now? Did someone attack you?”

Danyal reached for his sword and skimmed the treeline for potential pursuers, but he paused upon hearing a even more puzzling answer. “The boxwood.” Beric looked back and forth between Danyal and Thoros, apparently undecided whether he should give them more of an explanation.

“The boxwood?” Danyal skeptically echoed. He sheathed the sword and knelt down next to Beric. “Are you saying you were ambushed by a shrub? And you... killed the attacker?”

“Perhaps there was an animal hiding it.” Thoros untangled the cloak from the branches without taking his eyes off Beric. “The morning fog might have obscured it and...”

To their further confusion, Beric firmly shook his head. “I wasn't attacked.” He hesitated and waited for Thoros to drape the cloak over his shoulders, then pulled it tighter together as if to hide in it. “But I think I killed it.”

“If this is a prank to let Thoros know that his overbearing concern irritates you, you better say so right now.” Danyal furtively glanced to the treeline, then back to Beric. “Otherwise you'll have two mother hens hovering over you from here on because this kind of 'not acting normal' is indeed disconcerting.”

“I'm not joking.” Beric inched closer to Thoros and the fire. “You've seen it when we watered the horses last night, between the pond and large, mossy boulders. It was green when I got there, it had leaves and now it doesn't.” He crossed his arms under the cloak and his voice sounded equal parts stubborn and haunted when he continued. “I only closed my eyes for one moment and when I opened them again, the shrub was black, leafless and charred.”

Danyal got up from his knees and looked over to Thoros. “I'll take a look at this mysterious boxwood,” he said. “Maybe it was struck by lightning in the night and he didn't realize it right away. It's early in the morning, after all, he might not have been fully awake when he went for a piss.”

 

Thoros nodded and waited for Danyal to leave before he turned back to Beric and put an arm around his shoulders. For a while it was quiet, save for the crackling fire and a light breeze rustling the leaves of the grove. “I didn't 'go for a piss',” Beric finally mumbled, just loud enough for Thoros to hear. The pensive tone sounded like a real explanation would follow, so Thoros waited and did not interject. “I relieved myself on trees along the Roseroad though,” Beric continued after a long, thoughtful pause. “None of them withered and died right before me.” He absently stared into the low flames of the fire and cleared his throat. “I needed some time alone to... address other matters.” Another pause followed and Thoros took the burden of finding the right words off him.

“I know what you mean,” he said, his voice soothing and calm. “Danyal gave me a piece of his mind about me not leaving you any privacy lately. And I'm really sorry about that. I...”

“You were right,” Beric cut him off, still gazing into the fire. “You were right all along and I was too stubborn to admit it.” He sighed and rested his head against Thoros' shoulder. “Ever since Sandrine lifted the fog from my mind I just felt so... alive. And why wouldn't I? I had died, of course I'd have a new appreciation for life. Except for the nightmares, this vitality seemed like a blessing and I considered it a fair trade. Sleep was more invigorating, food and drink tasted better, I felt stronger and more driven than ever before. Bad dreams were a small price to pay, I thought. Yet you kept insisting that something was wrong with it all.”

“And what happened in the forest changed your mind about those blessings?” Thoros concluded.

Beric undecidedly shrugged and picked up the twig. “I began to have doubts ever since we returned to King's Landing,” he said. “The blessings are wearing off, yet the bad dreams still persist. It became harder to take my mind off certain things. Not a day went by without me wishing we could just go to...” He paused and his hand clutched the twig, as if he was trying to hold onto the subject of this conversation. “...wherever. I don't even know where I want to be, only that it's not here.” The twig broke, Beric scoffed and threw it into the fire. “What happened in the forest was just the last nudge I needed to say this out loud.”

Thoros put a kiss on Beric's temple and pulled him some closer. “We'll figure this out,” he whispered, strangely relieved that his hunch had been right. As troubling as things sounded, at least Beric was willing to talk about these concerns now. “We'll ride back to King's Landing and speak to Sandrine. She'll know what to do, I'm...”

“I'd rather not discuss the details with a lady.” Beric cautiously glanced up, his cheeks flushed, and Thoros couldn't help but chuckle at this welcome change from the deathly pallor.

“She's not going to ask for a demonstration,” he gave back, making it sound more certain than he really was. Famed healer or not, there were no experts for resurrections and the aftermath of such magic. Who knew what questions she'd ask about this peculiar case? However, what mattered right now was convincing Beric to talk to her in the first place. Letting on that Sandrine might be just as clueless as any other red priestess or priest wouldn't aid this effort. “But I suppose it might help if you told _me_ what happened, so I can give her the answers you'd deem improper.”

To his surprise, Beric got up from the ground and gave a quick nod toward the forest. “I don't need to explain what I was doing and how it is done, ” he said, his voice firmer than Thoros had expected. “I'm sure every man and boy in the realms knows this. There was nothing unusual about the way I did it, the only difference is the result.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The morning mist had faded and the banks of the pond, surrounded by ancient beeches and sprawling boxwoods, looked rather cozy in the early sunlight. Danyal paid no attention when Beric and Thoros arrived. He kept wandering around under the trees and looked up and down between the canopy and the roots, searching signs of a lightning strike and not finding any. The grey bark of the beeches was as smooth as ever, there was moss growing on the roots and the boulders, and with one glaring exception, the boxwoods were green.

When Beric had described the shrub as 'withered', it had not been an exaggeration. The twigs were dry and curled as if the ground they had grown from was barren for years. The few remaining leaves were dead; brittle and thin like parchment that had been exposed to scorching heat. Yet this boxwood stood right next to a pond. The forest ground wasn't arid, other plants nearby looked just fine.

Thoros went closer to inspect the bizarre sight, then turned to Beric with a bewildered expression. “That's a dead shrub if I ever saw one,” he noted, cautiously scraping the soil under the skeleton of a boxwood with the tip of his boot. “So you aimed at it and...?” he began, but broke off when Beric sighed and shot him a reproachful glare.

“I didn't 'aim'.” Beric came closer, but kept a respectful distance to the shrub. “Didn't think that would count as 'unusual',” he muttered more to himself. “But yes, I was facing this direction. I thought the boxwood made for good shelter from prying eyes. Just in case a certain someone would come looking for me despite my precautions.”

Danyal had concluded his silent inspection of the beeches and returned to the boulders. “Maybe it will wear off. Like your headaches. And the confusion.” He looked more bewildered than before, evidently the realization that lightning wasn't the cause of this had fully sunk in. “Could be your body is disposing of...” He furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. “Residue of death. Something like that, I don't know.” Thoros was about to say that this was a surprisingly sound explanation, but he remained silent when Beric shook his head in resignation.

“I don't claim to know how much 'death' I had in me...” he wandered over to Thoros, but didn't look at him, instead he regarded the shrub. “But I would think I disposed of it in Myr and during the journey,” he added, more flustered than pensive. “Not that you made it easy...” He shot a reproachful glance to Thoros, but there was a small smile. “I know, you were worried. I don't hold it against you. Not anymore.”

Danyal kicked the dead shrub, shaking the last dry leaves off the branches, and apparently it helped him regain his composure. “So nothing withered away under your volleys before then,” he dryly concluded, ignoring Beric's immediate glare. “The inn didn't burn down, the ship didn't sink. It might not be as dire as it seems.” His foot nudged the bare twigs of the shrub again. “Not to diminish the glory of nature, but the world will get over the loss of a boxwood.”

“There was nothing to wither.” Beric slowly wandered back to the path to their campsite. “Planks and stones are already dead.”

Danyal thought for a moment and regarded the shrub. “That doesn't mean it's not wearing off,” he said, then followed Thoros and Beric. “Only that dead things might have gotten the worst of it. Look at it this way... Better stones and dead planks than Lady Beesbury, don't you think?” He chuckled to himself and stepped over some roots. “Or Ser Gulian, I couldn't tell where your drunk mind went with the toast to him during the feast...”

Beric quietly grumbled, but he kept walking, heading back to their camp. “I suppose you're right,” he gave back. “There were worse ways of finding out about this. Still, I can't just tell myself it will pass and hope for the best. I tried that for weeks, brushed off unusual things or convinced myself they were blessings.” He jumped down a mossy slope and waited for Thoros and Danyal to catch up. “This is clearly not usual nor is it a blessing. If it persists...” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “My father might be understanding about my conversion, but this might make him fear for the future of our house.”

They continued on the narrow trail, toward the tent that had now come into view between the old trees. “You didn't exactly make an effort to continue your lineage in the past...” Thoros heard a mumble behind him, but a quick glare over his shoulder shut Danyal up. Beric had probably heard it as well, but he chose to ignore the stubborn remark.

“We'll ride for King's Landing and I'll speak to Lady Sandrine,” he decidedly added. “Not that I look forward to discussing such private matters with her, but I need to know if this is a permanent condition or if it will pass.”

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

“Was it really that obvious during the wedding that I'm not quite myself?” Beric directed his horse back to the road they had come from, leading to Highgarden, the Mander, and the Roseroad. “Did anyone say something to you? Anyone other than Renly?”

“Renly didn't say anything to me.” Thoros pulled his horse closer to Beric and skeptically regarded him from the side. “He barely even greeted me. But I take it he said something to _you_. Doesn't that answer the question if somebody noticed?”

“He doesn't count.” Beric raised his chin and straightened his back as if to underline his rejection of the notion with his posture. “Renly finds amusement in playful teasing. When he came to my table, he looked like he was in desperate need of diversions. He made a few joking remarks, but it doesn't mean he thought I was acting strange.”

“Well, of course.” Thoros earnestly nodded and furrowed his brow in thought. “Let me think... You eagerly agreed with Justin Massey when he praised the quality of Lady Beesbury's hives, then you went on to compare them to Lady Shyra's. I for one found that quite peculiar, but I suppose Ser Justin doesn't count because he doesn't know you that well.” He gazed to the sky, still clear with only a few scattered clouds, pretending to not see Beric's miffed glare. “Ser Tymon found it somewhat odd that you took such an interest in his wagers, as he couldn't think of a time when you made any bets. But he's not known to be especially observant, so he doesn't count either. Then there was the toast, which left everyone on our table quite puzzled, though it's hard to tell if Ser Gulian was flattered or merely stumped. Ser Eldrion was surprised when you chose rum over hippocras and Arbor Gold, but it's hardly unusual if a Redwyne man pays attention to wine. At one point, Ser Garlan said...”

“We can pretend all day nobody noticed any changes in your behavior, but that won't make it true,” Danyal interjected. “However, there's also no point in making it out as grave offenses. I frankly don't think anyone gave it a second thought.” He directed his horse next to Beric's when the road widened somewhat past the small forest. “Yes, a few people were a little bewildered, but their mind certainly didn't jump to resurrections, forbidden magic or foreign gods. Nobody suspects a dark, terrible secret. If they thought anything about it at all, they probably drew the same conclusion as me.”

“And what conclusion would that be?” Beric and Thoros simultaneously looked over to Danyal and were met with a blithe smile.

“Not exactly the same, they don't know about your resurrection. They might attribute your new outlook to the good company you've been keeping.” Danyal gave Beric a matey slap on the shoulder. “And I don't think it has anything to do with the resurrection either. You converted to a god who doesn't mind some indulgence! You're free from constraints imposed by the Seven, of course you eased up!” He took the waterskin, still filled with wine from the wedding, from his belt and toasted to Beric. “There's maybe a handful of knights in the Seven Kingdoms who ever complied with those rules as meticulously as you. That struck people as strange, that stood out. Now you're acting like anyone else and that won't raise any eyebrows.”

It certainly raised Beric's eyebrows, but he didn't reply. His eyes were back on the road, now meandering through a sea of meadows and harvested fields, and Thoros had a feeling Danyal wouldn't like the answer when it would come.

 

“You know why people really revere knights?” Beric finally began, still not looking to Danyal who quizzically regarded him from the side. “Because they are afraid of their gods, that's the truth nobody admits about knighthood and admiration. People don't think a knight is 'as strong and honorable as ten men', they only hope he is virtuous enough to make up for their own sins, should there ever be divine retribution.”

Danyal vaguely nodded, but his expression told Thoros he wasn't sure if he followed Beric's line of thought.

“People think of me as foolish and dull for my 'restraint', yet at the same time they claim to admire the strength of will behind it,” Beric continued, his tone still solemn and pointedly calm. “Because they fear their gods, so living up to knightly values in their name makes it more 'honorable' than foolish. A 'paragon of virtue' brings too much weight to balance their sins to the scale and that can't be mocked. Some chivalrous knights will tip the scale in mankind's favor even if the rest of them lives in sin, that's their thinking.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “They don't realize that there's no constant battle against 'sinful temptations' for me, that upholding my oath was never a struggle. If I had never been knighted in the light of Seven, if I had never even believed they existed, I would have lived by the code of chivalry all the same.”

Thoros shot a glance to Danyal and swallowed a chuckle. No doubt, he had hoped the conversion would mean an end to lectures about chivalry and proper behavior, and now saying so had sparked one instead.

“Knighthood and faith aren't two sides of a coin to me,” Beric went on, undeterred. “They're two different currencies altogether. The values of the Seven coincide with my own, but I adopted them out of conviction, not to 'please the gods'.” He quietly laughed to himself, gestured for the wine, then drank a sip when Danyal had handed it over. “If the Seven were real, they might have called me a fraud. I never 'defended divine virtues', I used the gods and people's fear of them to defend my own choices. I wasn't their sword, they were my shield against ridicule.”

He offered the wine to Thoros and waited for him to take a swig before returning the waterskin to its owner. “Though I suppose deep down, I suspected that the Seven never existed,” Beric added. The somber tone had shifted into one of vague amusement, but Danyal was too taken aback to notice the change. “I grew up with Anguy. I saw him sin more in a year than a knight could make up for in a lifetime.” Beric shrugged and shot Danyal an unconcerned smile. “No god descended from the Seven Heavens to administer punishment. If his archery is anything to go by, his sins were rewarded with improbable luck.”

Danyal inhaled, then let the air out in one long, overstated sigh. “As you wish, my lord.” His voice betrayed both sarcasm and resignation as he glowered at Beric. “I shall strive to be the most chivalrous knight I can be, regardless of the Red God's more relaxed disposition.”

Beric produced something between a pout and a chuckle, then his expression suggested he was serious again. “The Lord of Light could have chosen a thousand other men if he wanted a champion with a 'relaxed disposition',” he said. “There's no shortage of dying men in this world. Yet he chose me. Not for prayers, not for lip service, but for my true heart of hearts.” He pulled his horse closer and put a hand on Danyal's shoulder. “And I could have chosen a thousand other knights to serve me. But I didn't want a sworn shield who echoes my words like a parrot, I wanted someone with own values and convictions. Someone who stands up for what he thinks is right. You've done that for as long as I've known you. I won't 'ease up' from what I believe in, and I won't expect that you'll change. The Lord of Light revealed himself to us for a reason, and it's clearly not the way we chose to live our lives.”

 

Danyal's face now began to light up, but before he could put his relief into words, Beric disappeared under Thoros' faded cloak after a well-aimed throw. “You take it.” Thoros smiled an innocent smile as he watched Beric freeing himself from the cover. “Maybe the Lord of Light gave a mediocre priest the power to bring you back because he knew you'd become a much better preacher.”

The cloak didn't fly back to Thoros once Beric had untangled himself. “Maybe he did,” he said with an impish grin and reached for the clasp holding his own cloak on his shoulders. A moment later, the black cloak hit Thoros' face without more of a warning. “Might take my father a while to accept it, but it's a surefire solution to secure his legacy with an heir.”

Thoros threw the star-spangled cloak over his shoulders and laughed, but his heart wasn't in it anymore all of a sudden. That Beric joked about his peculiar issue suggested he not only had blind faith in the Lord, he was also confident Sandrine would be able to cure this condition. Thoros, however, wasn't so sure. Sandrine had said she expected a surge of such miracles, but she hadn't yet seen them with her own eyes. Hopefully, Thoros thought, Beric's faith in her healing abilities was justified. Sandrine was his best and his only chance to resolve this; healers with actual, hands-on experience regarding resurrections were an excessively rare breed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spoiler-free, vague warning for next chapter:**  
>  It's going to get spooky. Not really "graphic", but darker than the usual tone. I can't figure out how to tag it, other than an awkward long tag a la "chapter 30 might be closer to M than T, but not enough to change the rating".


End file.
